O Fortuna
by Spellthief
Summary: Tyche, called Fortuna by the Romans, was not a goddess to be worshipped, but feared. You can't go around giving out cosmic, godlike powers of creation and destruction to just anyone, after all. A darker take on the Miraculous universe.
1. fickle as the moon

**A/N:** Alright. So I absolutely _adore_ the cutesy, brightly-colored, cotton-candy ML series that we got. But, like a lot of other people, I was originally drawn in by the PV—dark, moody, atmospheric. I've spent a lot of time wondering about the "darker and more political" Ladybug that they originally had in mind. What would _that_ story have looked like? Probably nothing like this—I'm adhering more closely to CGI canon than to what we know about the PV-verse—but that's the aesthetic I'm going for, anyway. I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Here's the thing: Marinette doesn't actually believe in luck.

Oh sure, there's a superstitious streak in her that's a mile wide, and that's probably never going away. She has always been the kind of girl who was extra careful around mirrors and ladders and sidewalk cracks. If she spots a black cat while walking, she'll take care not to cross its path. Her bedroom is filled to the brim with various assorted lucky charms: a horseshoe over her door, a drawer full of rabbit's feet, a Japanese beckoning-cat that sits in her window, an entire scrapbook filled with pressed four-leaf clovers.

But here's the other thing: Marinette knows, that for all her efforts, she's never been any luckier—or _unluckier_ _—_ than anybody else.

She learned that the hard way.

It starts with a pair of lucky earrings.

* * *

They appear in her bedroom when she is twelve years old.

She wishes she could remember the moment that she first found them, but that memory dangles just out of her reach, sliding away every time she thinks she might have it pinned down. Did they appear on her bedroom floor, a plain black jewelry box sitting abandoned in the middle of her room? Or was the box left on her vanity counter, blending in seamlessly with her scattered piles of lip gloss and charm bracelets? Maybe it was left on her windowsill, or on her pillowcase, or on her sewing desk.

At their first appearance, in any case, she hadn't thought much of the earrings. They are simple studs, red spotted with black, like two little ladybugs sitting in their box. In dim light, they almost seem to glow, but they are otherwise unspectacular. Marinette puts them in a pile with the rest of her earrings, and does not think of them again.

She stumbles on them again, months later, when she is cleaning her bedroom. This time, though, something about them feels... different.

" _Maman?_ " she calls out.

"Yes, _ma petit_ _e?_ " her mother calls back. Marinette descends the staircase from her bedroom slowly, holding the earring box in her hand. Mme Cheng looks up from her cooking, brow furrowed. "Is something wrong?"

"Do you know where I got these earrings from?" Marinette asks, holding the box out towards her mother. Her mother sets the stove on simmer and wipes her hands down on a towel, then lifts the box up gently. She brings the earrings close to her eyes, face scrunching up as she examines them.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Mme Cheng says. She hands the box back. "I don't think I recognize them. Is there something wrong with them?"

"No," Marinette says slowly. "I just don't remember getting them, that's all."

Mme Cheng returns to her cooking. "Maybe they're magic!" she jokes. "You could take them to that magic item appraisal shop that's just around the corner."

Marinette laughs. "Maybe I should," she says. "With my luck, they're probably cursed."

Perhaps she was not so wrong about that.

Marinette spends a moment thinking very seriously about taking the earrings to the shop, just to see what they will say about them. She takes them back upstairs to her bedroom instead, thinking that they feel strangely heavy in her hand. Then she puts them in a drawer and forgets.

Maybe that's part of the magic, forgetting. Sometimes she opens the drawer and is surprised to see them there. There is a moment of confusion, a feeling of wrongness, before she remembers— _o_ _h, that's right_ —and then she closes the drawer again. The memories seem to fade the moment she looks away.

One day in late summer, while searching for a pair of sewing shears, she stumbles upon them again. She digs through the drawer, unearthing pincushions and stray bobbins and scraps of ribbon, and her fingers close around a box. She frowns. It is not what she is looking for. For some reason, she pulls it out anyway.

She holds it up. The box is still perfectly ordinary. She cracks it open, peering at the glittering earrings inside. Marinette takes a moment to admire them. They look like nice earrings, she thinks. She wonders what they're made out of—they don't quite look like plastic. Coral, perhaps? Jasper?

She doesn't put them on.

She doesn't know why—she thinks that they're lovely, and her ears have been pierced for years—but somehow she feels that she's not... ready. Not yet.

She closes the box and moves to place them back in the drawer. But then she hesitates.

On a whim, she puts the box in her purse instead.

She is fourteen years old.

* * *

The day that Marinette Dupain-Cheng first meets Adrien Agreste is anything but fortuitous.

It is a dreary Friday, not yet raining, but with ominous clouds hanging low in the sky. All of Paris is cast in a gloomy gray, and school children make their way to their classes with umbrellas clenched in their fists. Every so often, someone will hold out their hand, palm turned toward the sky, to check whether it has begun raining yet. It hasn't.

At the corner of Rue de Rivoli and Avenue Victoria, an old Chinese man sits contently on a bench. He does not carry an umbrella and does not look to the sky. He is, in fact, wearing a rather tacky floral print button-up, and would look more at home on some faraway Pacific beach than here in the middle of drab, autumnal Paris.

This intersection, in the heart of Paris's 21st arrondissement, is crowded with people. The man watches them come and go with sharp eyes. This is a very busy part of town, a crossroads of sorts, where you might come across anyone—rich or poor, old or young, local or tourist—and that is precisely why he is sitting here, at eight in the morning, watching them pass with carefully feigned disinterest.

"Master," a voice whispers. If anyone had been paying in particular attention, they might have noticed that the voice seemed to come from a small sack at the man's side, and not from the man himself. But this voice went unheeded by the passers-by, who were all quite busy with their own goings-ons. "The force is growing stronger."

"Hmm," the man says. If he is concerned, his face betrays no hint of it. "And what of Ladybug?"

"Still dormant," the voice says. "Tikki will not stir until her partner does."

"Hmm," the mans says again. He reaches into one pocket and removes a plain black jewelry box. He opens it just a crack, peering in at the black ring sitting within.

Perhaps it is ancient magic at work. Perhaps it is only a trick of the light. But for the briefest moment, the ring appears to glow faintly green. The man smiles to himself and snaps the box shut. He stuffs it back into his pocket and leaps up to his feat with surprising agility for a man of his age.

"Well," he mutters, "then I suppose it's good that I've finally made up my mind. That's the one."

He raises one hand to point out a boy walking on the far side of the street. The boy is thirteen, perhaps fourteen years old. He is tall for his age and has a certain lankiness about him, a definite sense that he has not _quite_ grown into his limbs. Despite his awkward proportions, he has a certain agility and grace—almost catlike, you might say—as he weaves easily through the crowds, much to the frustration of his chaperone. The polite fake smile that he has plastered on his face accidentally turns genuine when the woman accompanying him calls out after him, and he pauses for a moment, waiting for her to catch up.

The old man looks on with a faint smile, evidently quite pleased with his decision. The voice from the sack, however, has been watching the scene with growing horror. It makes an incoherent spluttering noise. " _Adrien Agreste?!"_ it hisses. "Do you _know_ whose son that is—?!"

"I know," the man says quickly, though he does not seem particularly concerned by it. "But they're perfect for each other. You can sense it too, can't you?"

The voice is oddly silent for a moment. "That may be true," the voice acknowledges, "but it's still too dangerous. I'm sure there's someone else who would work just as well."

"No. It has to be him. This is—" (and here the man pauses for dramatic effect) "— _fate._ "

There is some grumbling from the sack. "I never got along with Moyrra," it says, somewhat petulantly. "This human concept of fate—it is illogical, _dangerous_ even—my master, I beg you to reconsider."

"Oh, come now, old friend," the man says. "Look at him."

They both watch as a hurried businessman collides with a young child on the sidewalk. The child falls. The businessman walks on. But the Agreste boy stops. He kneels down by the child's side, talking to her in a low murmur, and when the girl confirms that she is uninjured, he lifts her up and sets her down lightly on her feet. He pats the top of her head before she goes on her way, and his chaperone rolls her eyes.

"He would make a good fit," the voice admits, albeit grudgingly. "But Plagg's powers are... volatile. How can you be certain that the boy would not be corrupted?"

The man frowns slightly. He does not answer at first, ambling slowly along the street, watching the Agreste boy from afar until he disappears completely from his sights. "That is the trouble, my friend," he says. "You can never really be certain."

He taps one finger against the box, still sitting in his pocket. "I have a good feeling about this one, though."

* * *

The box appears in Adrien's bedroom later that morning. He does not find it until late in the evening—until after his school lessons and fencing class and one truly disastrous first meeting with a certain Mlle Dupain-Cheng—and he is drawn to it immediately. Where Marinette was all nerves and hesitation, Adrien is absolute certainty. He puts on the ring without even thinking about it, and nothing has ever felt more _right_ in his life.

* * *

As for the old man—he waits, and he watches.

He trades his spot at the streetcorner for a place on a bench under a covered bus shelter along the Seine. The bus stop just happens to be across the street from a local school, the Collège Françoise Dupont. Six buses come and go while he waits. The sack at his side is still and silent.

At precisely 11:42, there is a murmur.

"Tikki is waking," it says.

At half past four, the school day ends. Students pour forth from the building, laughing and chatting, and go their separate ways.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng emerges from the building at 4:34, accompanied by another student. The other girl has one arm wrapped around Marinette's shoulders, and they are talking in hushed whispers. At the bottom of the stairs, the pair hesitates a moment, both of them glancing backwards. A particularly astute observer might notice that Marinette watched the school's doorway just a touch more wistfully than her companion, and that when she finally turns around again, her eyes are filled with disappointment.

At 4:39, Adrien Agreste stumbles out of the collège, looking crestfallen.

"There is still time to un-Choose him," the voice in the sack suggests.

"Patience," the old man says.

By seven in the evening, the old man has migrated from his place at the bench to an improbably high perch on the rooftop of Les Invalides. A few tourists, walking underneath and admiring the great golden dome, point quizzically at him. One of them wonders aloud whether he is going to hurt himself. The old man ignores them.

At 11:15, it begins.

The old man fishes out a cell phone from one of his pockets, and checks the time just to be sure. "That was cutting it awfully close," he says. "It's practically Saturday, already."

"I am sure that things would have progressed much the same if they had happened on Saturday the 14th," the voice says, a little wearily.

"It's the principle of the thing." The old man stands up and squints out at the horizon. His mortal eyes cannot see anything amiss, but once you get to be one hundred and eighty-six years old, your mortal eyes cannot see much of anything anymore. There is a power burning in him, something that sits heavy in his heart, and he feels the pull of like calling to like. Somewhere, just out of his sight, ancient magics are stirring.

"It's been a while," the old man muses, "since once of our butterflies was corrupted."

The voice is silent for a long time. The sack shifts slightly, and from it emerges a small green creature. You might say that it looked like a turtle, if you had never seen a turtle before. The creature is clearly magical, half-transparent and almost insubstantial, with something resembling a shell on its back. Its eyes are striking—bright and too large—making the creature seem almost... human. It moves slowly, floating through the air, and settles in comfortably on the old man's shoulder. It is quite dark enough now that few people can see the small old man standing atop the roof of Les Invalides, and none of them have eyes sharp enough to see his tiny magical companion.

"Cahokia," it finally says. "About eight hundred years ago."

The man grimaces. "Remind me how that one ended?"

Another pause. "Badly."

"Well," the man says. "I suppose we'd better keep a closer eye on our heroes, at least for tonight."

He looks up to the sky. Takes in a deep breath. He has gotten too old for the superhero shenanigans of his youth—too old to leap easily across city rooftops in the night, or to fight against great cosmic evils—but he is not _quite_ old enough that he can't still meddle, just a little bit.

The old man lifts one wrist up towards the sky. "Transform me," he says.

* * *

A local collège student, one Alya Césaire, would later dub the day _Unlucky Friday_. It is not an particularly inspired name on her part, but she honestly had not been putting all that much thought into it. The name comes to her at three in the morning as she is typing out a brief recap on the events she witnessed in between games of Candy Crush, while she waits for rescuers to come pluck her from the rubble of the half-collapsed Tour Montparnasse. She posts the write-up to her blog, along with a short cell phone video she managed to capture of the city's new superhero duo, later that night.

Her blog gets two million hits that weekend alone, and the name sticks.

Officially, the events of Unlucky Friday start at 11:15 on the thirteenth of September, when an adolescent boy—never officially named but known to be a classmate of Mlle Césaire's—is possessed by an unknown malevolent force and transformed into the supervillain known as Stoneheart (also named by Alya), thus beginning five hours and twenty-two minutes of the worst destruction that Paris had seen since... well, since the last time they'd had an active supervillain in the city.

(Approximately six years and seven months, if you must know.)

If you were to ask Alya when the events of Unlucky Friday began, she would point instead to a moment twelve hours earlier that day, when an off-handedly petty remark from young Chloé Bourgeois prompted one of her classmates to respond in kind, and it had all been steadily downhill from there. She, too, would be wrong.

The events of Unlucky Friday, really began around 50,000 years ago, when humans first discovered the concept of _change_ , and for some unknowable reason, they decided that it was one of the fundamental forces that held together the universe. From that belief was born power and from that power was born magic.

Its first name was _'anoor_. It was named in a tongue that has not been spoken on the earth in tens of thousands of years. There is no human alive that remembers that word, and it has had many new names since. But it remembers that first name, and what it means— _butterfly._

Humans remembered too, in their own way. Not the word, but the _meaning_.

Here, in this time and this place, their word for butterfly is _papillon_ _._ It is a different word, but beneath it lies the same power.

In a dim attic in the heart of Paris, a black butterfly spreads its wings.

But back to Stoneheart:

* * *

Alya spends almost two weeks as the New Girl, a status just beginning to grate on her nerves when she is mercifully replaced by an even newer student. His name is, apparently, Adrien Agreste, which prompts gasps from a few students and a half-whispered _damn_ from Marinette, the upbeat girl who sits next to her in class.

Chloé Bourgeois glances in their direction. Alya glowers back. From the very start, she'd gotten a bad vibe from the Bourgois girl, and so far Chloé had done absolutely nothing to change that impression.

"Don't get too excited," Chloé drawls. "He's not into girls who like to play dumb."

Marinette's face falls. Alya barely knows the girl at all, but she knows enough to see that Marinette is the last person in the world who would play dumb to win some boy's attention. She's willing to bet Chloé knows that too, and that's probably why she said it in the first place.

"Yeah?" Alya asks, lifting her chin. "I guess it's lucky for you he only likes girls who are _actually_ dumb."

Alya, of course, doesn't know the first thing about this Agreste kid. But slinging that insult felt good, and it feels even better to see the look of shocked gratitude on Marinette's face when she realizes that someone is actually standing up for her. Even Chloé has the decency to look taken aback for a fraction of a second. Then her shock morphs into a sly smirk. "Who needs to be smart when you're as hot as I am?" she says, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "It's only fuglies who need to be worried about intelligence. Right, Mylène?"

Mylène, who sits behind Chloé and is hardly the picture of traditional beauty, slides down glumly in her seat. She supplies no retort. Alya doesn't know it at the time, but this, too, was a calculated barb from Chloé—Mylène had been struggling with her grades since her parents divorced last year.

"Knock it off, Chloé," another classmate (Alix, Alya would eventually learn, but at the time she just thinks of her as Spiky Pink Hair) intervenes. "We don't have time for your crap today!"

Chloé just rolls her eyes. "Well, tough, sweetheart. Looks like you're going to have to make time."

Spiky Pink Hair looks like she's about to jump over their desks and start a proper fistfight, but Mylène stops her with a hand on her arm. Another classmate, a mountain of a boy who is already taller and heavier than most adults, takes a few steps forward and looms large over Chloé. "She's right," he says, "knock it off."

Ivan, despite his appearance, is one of the softest-hearted people in all of Paris. When he tells Chloé to stop picking on Mylène, there is no real threat behind his words. He is the kind of person who traps spiders in cups and carefully releases them outside. He is not looming over her to intimidate her—it's mostly just that he is the kind of person who looms over everyone, intentional or not.

Chloé doesn't see things like that, of course. All she sees is someone bigger and stronger than her, and if there's one thing she responds well to, it's power.

"Fine, whatever," she says, drawing into herself. The crisis seemingly averted, everyone in the room relaxes slightly, and Ivan returns to his seat.

But then she adds under her breath, "I'll make sure Daddy saves a particularly dank cell in prison for you."

For some reason, those words worm their way into Ivan's heart. It's strange. They may have been cruel words, but that was certainly nothing out of the norm for Chloé. He'd heard plenty worse from her, honestly. But something about them, at that time in that place on that unlucky day, hurts more than usual. They linger in his mind for hours afterward, long after school ends. They haunt his thoughts, eating away at him until he can't bear it any longer.

A small, dark part of him wishes that he could hurt Chloé as much as she hurt him.

And that is exactly what Papillon is waiting for.

* * *

The battle lasts for hours. Papillon uses Ivan's negative emotions to transform him into Stoneheart, who rampages senselessly through the heart of Paris, from Tour Montparnasse to the Champs de Mars. Two young teenagers take him down. By dawn, the story will be playing on every news station all over France, and by tomorrow the whole world will have heard that there is a new supervillain trying to take over Paris.

But for now—now that the civilians have been rescued and the corruption purified and the damage magically undone—the two heroes stand on metal beams halfway up the Eiffel Tower in the middle of the night, positively _giddy_ with their victory.

"I can't believe I did that!" the girl exclaims, one hand clapped over her chest. "I can't believe _we_ did that!"

"That was the best birthday ever," the boy says, starry-eyed.

The girl laughs out loud. "That was—" she begins to say, but then she's dissolved back into laughter. "That was your—" she tries again, before falling again into a fit of laughter. She can't seem to stop laughing. The boy joins in too, eventually, and somehow they find themselves with hands clasped, their foreheads pressed together, giggling in the darkness.

Finally, after they have slipped back into silence, the boys says, "I never got your name."

The girl smiles. "I think they're calling me Ladybug," she says.

"Ladybug," the boy says, almost reverently.

"What about you?" she asks quietly.

The boy seems startled for a moment. "Oh—I. Um. How about—uh—Chat Noir?"

"Ladybug and Chat Noir," the girl says, rolling the names around in her mouth. "I like it." She stands tall for a moment, looking awfully proud of herself, her hands planted on her hips as she surveys the city beneath her.

"So," she says. "How do we get down from here?"

Chat Noir leans forward slightly, looking at the distant ground below. "How did we get _up_ here to start with?" he wonders aloud.

Somehow, without really understanding why, laughter overtakes them yet again.

* * *

Far, far beneath Ladybug and Chat Noir, in the Trocadéro Gardens, the old man watches.

The turtle creature is sitting on his shoulder again. "Why did you detransform?" it asks, sounding slightly confused.

The old man squints upward, eyes fixed on the Eiffel Tower. "I'd say they handled that pretty well themselves, wouldn't you?" The magic creature makes a quiet noise of agreement. "Papillon hasn't realized that I'm in Paris yet. Best wait until I'm needed before I reveal myself."

"Ah," the creature says. "A wise decision, my master."

The old man fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and checks the time. 4:52 AM, the numbers say, bright against the darkness. He returns the phone to his pocket.

"And so the wheel of fortune turns again," he murmurs. "Let's just hope I got it right this time."


	2. o monstrous fate

Chat Noir lands silently on all fours, much more lightly than you would have thought possible for a teenage boy that had just catapulted thirty meters across the Parisian sky, and smirks.

Ladybug is at his side mere moments later. She hits the roof with a bit more force than he had, her own superpowers tending more towards brute strength and less towards catlike grace, but she absorbs the impact without complaint. She spends a moment peering critically through the arched glass roof of the Grand Palais, surveying the scene below carefully, before she makes her decree.

"That is _way_ too many pigeons," she clucks distastefully.

"Mmm," Chat Noir agrees. "They've really _fowled_ the place up."

Ladybug rolls her eyes, but does not otherwise acknowledge the pun. She's all business now, lips pursed as she tries to come up with a plan, filtering all other distractions out of her mind. Her eyes crawl over the scene below her, hesitating on a few choice spots: the great central dome, the metal beams stretching across it, the delicate glass panels that tile the entire roof. Beneath it, there is a seemingly infinite swarm of pigeons flying inside that have completely hidden the floor—and the villain of the day—from view.

"Lucky charm," she murmurs thoughtfully, holding out her right hand. A red and black spotted mallet appears in a flash of pink light. Ladybug smirks and tightens her grip around the handle.

"Kitty," she says, pointing with the mallet. She doesn't need to say anything else—he understands exactly what she needs him to do.

"Got it," Chat Noir says. He takes a breath to focus himself, then summons destructive energy to his fingertips. His right hand glows green with the power, and he leaps into action. He moves delicately, brushing his hand ever so lightly against the steel beams, and the metal rusts and crumbles beneath his touch. It's a peculiar dance, leaping back and forth across the rooftop, destroying just enough to weaken the structure but not so much that it will collapse beneath him, until at last he lands nimbly back at Ladybug's side.

"Time to crash this party," she says, aiming the mallet carefully. It takes just one well-placed strike to bring the entire glass roof down. It starts in the center, the weakened dome caving in upon itself, and spreads outwards from there, cracks spidering all the way out to the edges. The glass falls in pieces, one sheet at a time, the shards raining down on the panicking pigeons below.

Some of the pigeons are struck by the glass, falling with heavy thuds back to the floor. But more of them escape into the sky, shrieking as they unfurl their wings and abandon the chaos below.

"Found him!" Ladybug calls out, pointing to a lone human figure on the far side of the Palais. He looks almost comedic, Chat thinks—one of Papillon's classic supervillains, dressed in garishly bright spandex, cowering as the roof of the Palais comes down around him. It's by luck alone that he doesn't get skewered by the falling glass.

Ladybug wastes no time throwing herself down towards the supervillain. She lands hard and slides on her knees, ignoring the tiny shards of glass that tear at her legs, and is back up on her feet in an instant. Chat Noir follows her into the Palais with slightly more caution, but by then Ladybug already has the situation under control. In one smooth motion, she shoves the supervillain off balance, grabs the whistle that hangs around his neck, and hurls it at the ground.

The whistle shatters on impact, and a single black butterfly flutters out of it.

"Miraculous Cure!" Ladybug shouts, holding one hand up towards the sky. Glittering pink light spreads out from her fingertips and across the whole of the Grand Palais. The light heals everything it touches: the akuma is purified, its black wings turning soft white, and all the damage to the building is miraculously undone. Even the scratches on Ladybug's knees vanish, cured with a flash of pink. Papillon's supervillain transforms back into a plain-looking middle aged man, who is staring up at the superhero duo with a flabbergasted expression.

"I..." he begins, sounding dazed. "How did I get here?"

"Papillon akumatized you," Ladybug says, her tone matter-of-fact. She's had this conversation a dozen times now. She takes a few steps towards the man and holds out one hand to help him up. Hesitantly, he accepts it, and she yanks him up with far more strength than you would have expected from a girl so petite. "Are you feeling okay?"

The man blinks a few times. "I don't know," he admits.

He spends a few more moments getting his bearings, his eyes roaming over his surroundings. "I think I'll be leaving now," he says weakly, and begins shuffling towards the door.

Ladybug's offer to accompany him is dismissed with a wave of his hand. "No thank you, I'm sure that was enough excitement for one day," he explains. He walks towards the door a little more quickly now, but Ladybug hardly seems to notice. Instead she finally turns to face Chat Noir, grinning brightly.

He takes a few steps closer to her. She puts one hand on her hip, cocks her head to the side, and raises one arm. " _Bien jou_ _é_ ," they say in unison, bumping their fists together. Her smile is more brilliant than the sun itself.

"A shame about the pigeons," she says, gesturing with her head. Chat turns to see what she's motioning at, and his stomach churns slightly.

Ladybug's healing powers are incredible—closing wounds and mending shattered glass and knitting broken bones back together again—but they have limits. Even she can't undo death. Hundreds of healed pigeons are fluttering across the Palais, looking for an exit, but they've left behind their slain brethren. Ladybug's magic cleansed the blood from the floors and fixed their mangled wings, but the dead pigeons stay thoroughly dead. They are left where they fell, a carpet of bodies stretching across the tiled floor.

"Anyway," Ladybug continues, sounding unperturbed, "I've gotta fly. The transformation's wearing thin."

She flings her yoyo out to the freshly mended metal girders overhead, and propels herself towards the front door, gliding easily over the pile of avian corpses beneath her. At the doorway, she does flip, lands softly on the pads of her feet, and dashes outside without looking back. Chat Noir watches the empty spot in the doorway for a long time after she's disappeared.

 _She's literally perfect_ , he thinks to himself.

The entire Grand Palais is empty, except for him and the pigeons, and he wonders for a moment whether he should savor this more. How many more opportunities is he going to have to admire Parisian landmarks without a swarm of tourists blocking the view?

Well. There is _one_ thing that is kind of ruining the effect.

Chat Noir pauses for a brief moment, holding up one gloved hand. It's still a little weird for him to look at. The transformation doesn't just give him super-strength and a flashy costume—his fingernails have been replaced with actual, functional claws. He's not sure whether he's disappointed or relieved that the gloves keep him from seeing what his transformed hands actually look like.

"Cataclysm," he says softly. He doesn't actually need to say it out loud to summon the power, but sometimes it helps focus the magic.

The universe stutters. An ancient force stirs, and suddenly Chat Noir has the power of destruction literally at his fingertips. He examines his hand very closely for a few moments, still trying to reconcile the fact that it's _his hand_ under there, glowing faintly green as the power crackles between his fingers. Then he kneels into a crouch, and presses his palm gently to the floor.

He closes his eyes. The power moves through the floor but leaves it untouched. Chat Noir aims his destruction solely at the dead pigeons that litter the building, focusing the energy carefully. The bodies are engulfed in blackness dissolve into nothing, leaving no trace that they had ever been there.

It feels a little bit wrong, like he's destroying evidence or something. But it would feel wronger just to leave them there, left behind for someone else to clean up.

When he rises back up to his feet, he feels slightly light-headed. That last Cataclysm had used more energy than he'd anticipated, and it's probably well-past time that he changed back, now. Chat Noir's transformation melts away in a flash of light, leaving a perfectly ordinary looking fourteen year old standing alone in the middle of a swarm of confused pigeons in the Grand Palais.

A blur of black swirls around his head. "What was _that_ for?" Plagg asks, clearly annoyed. "Now we're going to have to _walk_ all that way back."

"I couldn't just leave them there," Adrien says, swatting at the air. Plagg evades him easily. "Besides, it's not that far."

"Maybe not," Plagg mutters, "but you were running late _before_ M. Pigeon showed up _—_ Nathalie is not going to be happy about this one!"

Adrien rolls his eyes, despite knowing that Plagg is probably right. "There was an akuma—it's a pretty good excuse, don't you think?"

Plagg makes a disgruntled noise. "Don't blame me when you get in trouble," he says, and then disappears into one of Adrien's pockets.

Adrien sighs. He makes his way slowly out of the Palais, and he isn't surprised to see a small crowd of onlookers nearby. Fortunately, their attentions seemed to be wholly devoted to 'M. Pigeon', who is fielding questions with surprising calm, and Adrien is able to slip out without notice.

 _Good luck_ , he thinks to himself, smiling wryly. Ever since he first became Chat Noir, he's always found it a little ironic when luck works in his favor.

Adrien starts his walk back home in good spirits. It's a beautiful day in Paris, bright and crisp, the tail end of an unusually warm autumn. Leaves crunch beneath his feet as he walks, and he's surprised at how liberating it feels to just _walk_ across Paris, without a chauffeur or a bodyguard hovering behind him at every step.

His mood falls by the time he reaches his house. Though the akuma incident has long since resolved, someone—probably Nathalie—has activated the mansion's security system, and now all the doors and windows are shuttered over with solid steel.

There's absolutely no chance that his absence has gone unnoticed.

With a sigh, Adrien glumly makes his way to the front door, punches in the passcode, and waits impatiently for the door to unlock. By the time the metal cage over the front door has receded, Nathalie has already been alerted to his presence and is waiting for him on other side of the entrance hall, where she stands with a cool, impassive expression.

"Hi, Nathalie," Adrien says, a little timidly.

She doesn't reply right away. Nathalie Sancoeur is every bit as heartless as her name, and she's never been the type to waste time with pleasantries. She gives Adrien a once-over, checking that he is uninjured and apparently unharmed, and then says, her voice a low monotone, "You missed your fencing lesson."

Adrien winces slightly. Nathalie might give every outward appearance of calm, but she's been working for his father for years, and he's learned how to read her by now. The slight, barely-there twitch of a muscle in her jaw when she speaks does not bode well for him.

"I'm sorry," Adrien apologizes quickly. "There was an akuma—"

"In the seventh arrondissement," Nathalie interrupts dully. "You shouldn't have been anywhere near it."

"I—" Adrien begins. He doesn't finish his sentence. She has him there—he _shouldn't_ have been anywhere near the seventh.

He hesitates a moment longer, trying to come up with a convincing lie, but Nathalie speaks again before he has the chance. "Your father would like to speak with you," she says, looking him dead in the eye. "He is not pleased."

Adrien feels something like dread in the pit of his stomach.

 _Why does he only want to see me when he's angry?_ he thinks bitterly to himself.

"You told him?" Adrien asks, already knowing what the answer will be.

"It's my job to tell him these things," Nathalie says, glancing away. "He's waiting for you."

"Okay," Adrien mutters. Nathalie stands by silently, giving him no avenue for escape, and so he turns reluctantly towards the hall to his father's office. Slowly, he makes his way down the hall and all too soon he's standing in front of a heavy oaken door that he probably knows better than his actual father. He takes a moment to compose himself before raising a hand and knocking against the door, just once.

"Enter," Gabriel Agreste says from the other side.

Adrien pushes the door open and slides into the room. Gabriel is seated at his desk, carefully examining a design, occasionally making quick notes on the paper with his fountain pen. He does not look up when Adrien enters the room.

"Close the door behind you," Gabriel instructs.

Adrien closes the door, as instructed, and then waits awkwardly where he stands. The silence between them stretches out for a long time. Gabriel's full attention is focused on his work, and he hardly seems to have noticed that is son is even in the room.

"Um," Adrien says, finally interrupting the quiet. "Is this a bad time? I could come back later..."

"No, this is fine," Gabriel says. He doesn't say anything else.

Adrien waits.

Seconds pass, then minutes. Adrien shifts his weight where he stands, beginning to feel a cramp in one of his calves. Even Plagg seems to be getting anxious, fidgeting slightly in Adrien's pocket. Eventually, Gabriel sets aside his pen, though he does not look up from the papers in front of him. "Nathalie tells me that you missed your fencing lesson today," he says. "Why?"

"I was—I got caught up with something else. I lost track of time. I'm sorry."

"Something else?" Gabriel asks skeptically.

"Working on a school project with some friends," Adrien lies.

Gabriel Agreste finally pauses in his work long enough to actually look at his son. His gaze sweeps critically over his slightly wrinkled clothes and the baby fat that's still in his cheeks before settling on his eyes. Maybe the look was meant to be affectionate. To Adrien it feels more like a staring contest than anything else.

Adrien looks away first.

"It's lucky that you inherited your mother's eyes," Gabriel muses. Adrien doesn't know what to say to that—he's _never_ known—and so, as always, he remains silent.

Gabriel also remains silent, his gaze returning to the pile of paperwork on his desk. Adrien almost thinks that he's not going to say anything more when finally, his father adds, almost wistfully, "It is a shame that you inherited her... more _rebellious_ streak as well. In her youth, she was quite the troublemaker..."

 _She was as an adult, too_ , Adrien thinks to himself, but doesn't dare say out loud.

"You may remember, Adrien, that when I allowed you to begin attending public school in September, it was under the condition that it would not interfere with your other activities." Gabriel pauses here, tapping the end of his pen against his desk a few times. Adrien winces and waits for the inevitable. "Is this going to become a problem?"

"No, sir," Adrien says quickly. "It won't happen again, I promise."

Gabriel seems to find the answer satisfactory. "Good," he says, returning his full attention to his work. "I trust that we won't have to have this conversation again."

Adrien accepts the dismissal wordlessly, and slips out of his father's office before he can change his mind. Nathalie glances up at him when he passes by. Anyone else would say that she looks bored, but Adrien can see the subtle slant in her eyes that mean she feels slightly guilty. He wishes he hadn't noticed. It makes it even harder for him to pretend that he's angry with her.

It's not really her fault, he knows. She's an employee, not his mother.

But even if he can't find it in his heart to be mad at her, he's still upset. It takes everything he has not to burst out running, and it's only when he finally shuts his bedroom door behind him that he lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Plagg zooms out of his hiding space in Adrien's shirt pocket. "Finally!" he says, stretching out his mostly-incorporeal black limbs. "I'm starving."

"Is that all you can think about right now?" Adrien asks sulkily. He shuffles forward, kicking off his shoes as he does, and flops face-first onto his bed.

"Hey, that magic isn't cheap!" Plagg protests. "It comes at a cost. And that cost is Camembert. You know the rules—five cheese wheels per metric ton of destruction. It's a real bargain, honestly. You should be _grateful_."

Adrien buries his face in his pillow. "You know where the cheese is," he tells Plagg, except that it's muffled by his bed, and really comes out more like, _ooommff mmtfff thm_ _i_ _fff_ _._ Luckily, in their months together, Plagg has long since figured out how to translate Moody Adrien into standard French.

"But Adrien," Plagg whines, "I'm _tired._ You can't expect me to open the drawer by myself."

Plagg translates Adrien's next muffled mumble into, "You can phase through solid objects. You don't have to open the damn drawer."

" _Adriiieeeennnn_."

Without lifting his head, Adrien reaches one hand clumsily out to his nightstand. He fumbles around for a moment before his fingers curl around the drawer's handle, and he yanks it open. Plagg lets out a little whoop and then dives into the drawer, emerging with two round containers of cheese.

He sets them down delicately upon the nightstand, and then coughs lightly. Adrien ignores him.

"Adrien, I need you to open the containers, too," Plagg says.

Adrien grumbles into his pillow. Reluctantly, he rolls over in his bed, grabs one of the boxes roughly, and wrenches it open. "Lazy cat," he admonishes, holding it out to the kwami.

Plagg does not hesitate to snatch the cheese out of his hand. "I'm not lazy, it's _magic_ ," he reminds Adrien, sounding slightly smug. "You like physics, don't you? You know that energy—"

"Can be neither created nor destroyed," Adrien finishes, rolling his eyes. "I just never thought that it could be fueled by moldy cheese."

Plagg smiles thinly. "Perhaps you would prefer to have been paired with Ammit," he says, "who eats nothing but figs." He pauses a moment to swallow half the wheel of cheese whole. "And the souls of the unworthy," he adds on, almost— _almost—_ as an afterthought.

Adrien sends a withering glare in Plagg's direction. "Aren't there ever any _nice_ kwami that you could tell me about?"

Plagg finishes the cheese in another bite, then floats over towards Adrien. He lands softly on his shoulder and curls up against his neck. "I could," Plagg admits, "but then you might get jealous. I'd hate that."

That, finally, prompts a small snort of laughter from Adrien. "We couldn't have that, now could we?" he teases, and reaches up with one hand to scratch under Plagg's chin. The kwami accepts the affection with a low purr. "It would be a real nightmare if I found out about some superpowers that could actually be used to _help_ people."

"Humans are so ungrateful," Plagg murmurs drowsily, but he makes no motion to move.

"I'm just saying," Adrien says, a little forlornly, "It's kind of hard to be the good guy when your main superpower is _destruction_."

Plagg says nothing. The kwami is already asleep, or at least is doing a very good job of pretending to be.

* * *

In all their time together, Adrien has never quite been able to convince Plagg to give him a straight answer about the other kwami. He gives Adrien information in bits and pieces—a disparaging comment about foxes, a mention of a spider-themed hero called Arachne, the occasional dry quip about someone named Tikki—but immediately becomes evasive whenever Adrien tries to ask a serious question.

He'd asked, just once, about Papillon's kwami.

"We've never met," Plagg had said, shrugging. "I don't even know its name."

 _How many others are there?_ Adrien's asked, a thousand times. Plagg's answer, every time, has been: _enough_.

Adrien's next step, naturally, had been to turn to the internet. He's scoured every blog post, every article, every forum thread he could find about people like them. They've been well-documented in more recent years, with newspapers and cameras and now social media to record their every act, but anything that happened more than a hundred years ago is... fuzzier. The further back the stories go, the harder it becomes to distinguish fact from legend.

Adrien knows, logically, that Plagg is older than him. That he's probably been partnered with other people, other Chat Noirs or Black Cats or whatever else they've been called.

He hasn't been brave enough to ask about them yet.

After Plagg falls asleep, he spends an hour sulking in his room, reading over the Ladyblog's discussion forums and trying to decide whether he _really_ believes that a nineteenth-century London serial killer could have secretly been one of his predecessors when his thoughts are rudely interrupted by an upbeat cell phone jingle. On his shoulder, Plagg shifts slightly and grumbles. Adrien snatches up the phone and glances briefly at the number before answering, even though there's really only one person who ever calls him.

"What's up, Chlo?"

"Have you heard about the latest you-know-what incident?" Chloé asks, sounding bored.

Adrien wonders for a moment why she even calls him if she doesn't like talking to him, but he pushes that thought aside to deal with for another time. "You're talking about the akuma?"

"Whatever," Chloé says, and Adrien can _hear_ her rolling her eyes, even if he can't see it. "I don't speak Chinese. The point is, did you hear about it?"

"Uh, yeah," Adrien says. "I, um, I read about it on the Ladyblog."

"Huh," Chloé says, sounding for a moment less derisive and more surprised. "That was fast. Anyway, that's not the point—if you've read about it, then you already know that Ladybug and Chat Noir collapsed the roof of the Grand Palais."

"Uhh..." Adrien says. Yes, he remembers that part quite vividly. "Yeah, so?"

Chloé makes a strange choking sound. "So they collapsed the roof of the _Grand Palais_ ," she practically screeches. "Daddy's been getting calls nonstop. He's going to make a statement about it tonight."

"A—A what?"

"A. Statement," Chloé says emphatically. "Promising that Paris is still safe and—get this— _humbly_ requesting that Ladybug and Chat Noir stop destroying famous Parisian landmarks."

The way she says the word _humbly_ is dripping with mockery and condescension. Adrien gets the uncomfortable feeling that the request is going to be more like an order. A very polite order, maybe, but still an order.

Well, that'll be something for Ladybug and Chat Noir to deal with in the future, he supposes.

"Why does it matter?" Adrien asks. "Ladybug's magic fixed it in the end anyway."

"Yeah, well," Chloé says. She pauses for a moment, uncharacteristically thoughtful. "People are stupid," she eventually continues. "They just get worried about things. Anyway, that's not the point. I called you for a _reason_ you know."

"Okay?"

"Your father is livid," Chloé announces dramatically. "That awful woman who works for your father? Her name is, like, Frigid Bitch or something?"

Adrien coughs uncomfortably. "Sancoeur," he corrects lightly.

"Yeah, well, she's been on the phone with our people for—hmm—an hour now? That's the real reason Daddy's going to make the statement, you know. To get your father—or his company, at least—to shut up about the whole thing."

"Why does he care?"

"Pfft. You of all people should know that your father holds his winter fashion show in the Grand Palais every year. That's _next month_ , bird brain. This whole supervillain nonsense has already wrecked the tourism industry, and after that little fiasco today people aren't exactly lining up to stand underneath big glass roofs. Anyway, I thought you would appreciate the heads-up. I know how your dad gets when things aren't going his way."

Despite himself, Adrien feels a half-smile creeping up on his lips. "Yeah, well, you're too late," Adrien says. "Dad already chewed me out."

There's a moment of static as Chloé breathes out heavily. "Damn," she says, sounding genuinely angry on his behalf. "What a jerk. I'm never wearing one of his designs again."

"Thanks, Chloé," Adrien says. He knows, of course, that her vow won't even last a week—but he appreciates the sentiment. He's about to launch fully into woe-is-me mode, hoping that Chloé will be more sympathetic to his father-son relationship drama than Plagg was, when the whole mansion starts shaking violently. Adrien freezes where he sits, his eyes flitting towards the window. There's a loud noise, something that sounds almost like... a guitar riff?

That doesn't bode well. "Uh, I'm going to have to go now," Adrien says distantly.

"Right, I know you're busy," Chloé agrees briskly, either not noticing or not caring about Adrien's sudden shift in tone. "And so am I! Talk to you later, sweetie, buh-bye."

Chloé, in her typical fashion, hangs up before Adrien even has a chance to respond. Adrien's just barely set his phone down on his desk when Plagg says, "I'm sure it's nothing too serious. We should take a nap or something instead."

"Oh no you don't," Adrien chides. He skips over to his window, and goes up onto his tiptoes, seeing if he can find the cause behind the sudden earthquakes that have been shaking the house. He finds one in the distant shape of a human man flying over the city, swathed in darkness. "Paris needs us."

" _We_ need sleep," Plagg protests weakly. "That's the second akuma today, I'm sure Paris will understand if we take a few more hours to recover..."

"Transform me!" Adrien orders instead, completely ignoring Plagg's pleas. Plagg grumbles, but he can't resist the transformation—the magic that binds him compels him to obey. There's a flash of light as the kwami merges with the ring, and by the time it's faded, Chat Noir has already leapt out of the window.


	3. the whims of fortune

"Twice in one day!" Alya exclaims. She can hardly contain her excitement—she's practically trembling, at this point. " _Twice!_ That's never happened before."

"Mm-hmm," Marinette agrees wearily.

The two girls shuffle along Avenue Victoria, the street illuminated dully by the early morning light. Alya is particularly energetic this morning, her spirits buoyed by the biggest scoop in the (admittedly short) history of the Ladyblog. She looks like she might break out skipping at any moment. Marinette, by contrast, is barely even awake, crawling alongside her with great reluctance.

"And the Eiffel Tower! I thought it was gonna fall over!"

"Mm-hmm," Marinette agrees.

Alya shivers slightly, though that might be more because of the weather than any lingering fears of the Eiffel Tower collapsing onto Paris. Despite the November chill, she is wearing her usual jeans and plaid button-up, sans any kind of jacket or coat. Though it has been a warm autumn, she is probably a little underdressed for the season.

Marinette, by contrast, is quite bundled up. She's wearing thick fleece leggings under her dress and an cable knit sweater over it, topped off with a tasseled red scarf that she crocheted herself last winter. The look is not so much to keep off the cold—which it, admittedly, does quite well—but to conceal the half dozen gashes she got from flying debris while fighting Guitar Villain last night.

She could have just healed them with her magic, of course, but that would have taken _energy._

True, it didn't cost much magic to deal a few little scratches. It was nothing compared to the effort it had taken to fix the Eiffel Tower last night. But after curing everything and everyone else, Ladybug had barely had enough strength left to stay upright, let alone have even the tiniest drop of magic left over to use on herself. Her injuries would just have to heal on their own, the normal way.

"And then that good-for-nothing mayor had to go get his grubby, politician hands all over it!" Alya continues. She curls her hands into fists and punches at the air. "Oooh, I hate all the political pandering! Trying to get all cozy with Ladybug for his re-election campaign."

"Mm-hmm," Marinette agrees, again.

Alya freezes where she stands, fists still raised. She hesitates a moment, then leans in closer to her friend. Alya brings one hand to her chin, contemplative, as she eyes Marinette up and down. "You're not even listening to me, are you?"

"Mm-hmm," Marinette says.

In Marinette's defense, she has rather a lot on her mind at the moment. Yesterday, there had been two akuma attacks in the same day— _(_ _T_ _wo! That's never happened before)_ —and fighting them both had been a real drain on her energy, not to mention her free time. Then she'd had to endure the indignity of Mayor Bourgeois's kindly condescension, as he _humbly requested_ that she and Chat Noir refrain from destroying any more Parisian landmarks. The words had been said lightly, almost like a joke, but she'd heard the underlying threat in them. She'd grit her teeth and smiled and promised to do her best, but it had taken all of her self control not to fly into a rage. She's a _superhero_ , not a child!

Well, okay. So she _is_ technically a child too. But that's not the point.

"Marinette!" Alya snaps, waving one hand in front of her eyes. "Earth to Marinette!"

Marinette shakes her head slightly and jolts herself out of her thoughts. "What's that?"

"You were totally out of it," Alya says, crossing her arms over her chest. "What is _with_ you lately? You're practically a zombie."

"Sorry," Marinette apologizes. She looks away and fiddles nervously with one sleeve of her sweater. "I guess my brain's still on vacation."

Alya regards her thoughtfully for a moment. She has a very piercing gaze, as you might expect from a teenage journalist, and it's anyone's guess what's going through her head as she eyes Marinette up and down. Marinette knows that Alya picks up on little details, that she can puzzle together information from just a few scattered clues. Alya holds the look for a little too long and Marinette thinks, not for the first time, that Alya is too clever by half. But then Alya reluctantly smiles and shrugs, and Marinette sags with relief.

"Yeah, breaks never seem to last long enough," Alya agrees.

The real reason, of course, for Marinette's subdued state is that Papillon's attacks have been growing steadily more and more frequent. When he first appeared back in September, Paris's head supervillain seemed to be content with corrupting innocent civilians once or twice per week, and every super-powered minion he'd managed to create had been easily taken down by Ladybug and Chat Noir. Now it's rarer to have a day without an akuma attack than with one, and their powers have gradually become more and more frightening. Last month they'd been fighting villains that could only trap people in bubbles, or force them to rhyme. Yesterday alone she'd fought two of the most powerful villains yet.

"Anyway," Alya continues, "now that I've actually got your attention—did you hear about what happened yesterday?"

"O-of course," Marinette says, trying to hide her stutter behind a smile. "I read your blog, right?"

That's a lie. Marinette never reads the Ladyblog when she can avoid it—she has quite enough to keep up with on her own, thank you very much—but she's not about to admit that to Alya. And besides, does she _really_ need to read the Ladyblog when she's the one living it?

"So, what did you think?" Alya asks. She looks like she's ready to launch back into her spiel when suddenly something catches her eye. One corner of her mouth quirks upward into a small smile. "No, never mind. Agreste spotted at two o'clock. We're coming back to this conversation later though!"

Marinette jumps, suddenly on high-alert. "Where?"

Alya rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling. "I mention Adrien, and suddenly you're awake again!" she says, shaking her head. "He's over there, you big goofball, maybe you can try saying hello to him today."

Marinette's eyes follow where Alya is pointing, eventually picking Adrien out in a crowd of other students. He's standing just a little further down the street, lingering near the stairway into the school, chatting amiably with Nino and some other boys from their class.

Marinette would like to be able to say that she walked confidently over to him and said hello, just like Alya suggested. Instead she stands rooted in place, staring wide-eyed at her crush, mouth hanging slightly open. Beside her, Alya sighs and mutters under her breath.

As if he can sense that he's being watched, Adrien glances their way. His eyes meet Marinette's, and for a brief moment she is struck breathless by how pretty he is. Adrien offers her a small, shy smile and Marinette forgets how to make words. Her mouth moves, as if the action alone might coax her vocal chords into making sounds, but all that comes out is a very quiet _eep!_

Face burning red, Marinette turns away and pretends that she's rooting around for something in her backpack. When she looks in Adrien's direction again, his attentions have wandered elsewhere. Marinette feels relieved and disappointed at the same time.

"Almost," Alya says, gently patting her best friend's head.

"I should just give it up," Marinette says glumly. "I'm a wreck, Alya."

Alya clucks her tongue. "You'll get there eventually," she says. She leans down and loops one of her arms through Marinette's. "Come on, we're gonna be late to class."

Arms linked together, the two girls make their way into the school. Alya keeps talking, an endless stream of encouragement, but Marinette is hardly listening. As much as Marinette is comforted by Alya's tremendous faith in her, she privately doubts whether she'll ever be able to talk to Adrien like a normal human being. How exactly is she supposed to talk to the most handsome, compassionate, kind-hearted, and selfless boy she's ever met _without_ stumbling over her words? Especially after that dreadful first meeting—Marinette shudders to even think of it.

They had gotten off to a bad start, to say the least.

* * *

The day that Marinette Dupain-Cheng first meets Adrien Agreste is anything but fortuitous.

When you are as superstitious as Marinette is, you take notice of bad omens, even if you don't mean to. So when she spills the salt at breakfast that morning, and accidentally knocks one of her family's picture frames off the wall, and then trips over a black cat on her way to school, she takes it as a sign from above that today is not her day.

There is also the small matter that it is Friday the 13th, that most unlucky of dates.

She tries not to let it get to her too much. Marinette's been cursed with bad luck since the moment she was born, and if she spent all her time getting all depressed about it, she wouldn't have time for anything else. So even though the day is shaping up to be pretty awful, Marinette keeps her chin up. When she arrives at school, she's still trying to keep up a positive attitude.

It takes Chloé about thirty seconds to crush that positive attitude.

So when Adrien firsts walks into their classroom that afternoon, with Chloé practically draped over his shoulders, Marinette is suspicious from the very start. Anyone who's that friendly with Chloé is surely no friend of hers. And, well, things just go downhill from there, a whole cascade of mistakes and misunderstandings—anyway, that's not the important part. The important part is that by the end of the school day, Adrien Agreste is competing with Chloé herself for Worst Person Ever, as far as Marinette is concerned.

Monday brings seemingly endless apologies, all of which Marinette icily ignores. Chloé had been known to "apologize" for her behavior sometimes, too—usually as part of some scheme to bring Marinette still more torment.

By Tuesday, the apologies have largely stopped, though Adrien keeps glancing over at her during class with big, mournful eyes. Marinette ignores those too.

On Wednesday, Alya stays home sick, and Adrien apparently takes that as a sign from the universe that he should try talking to her again. She manages to evade him for most of the day, brushing him off in-between classes and managing to avoid him for the entirety of their lunch break, but he manages to trap her at the end of the school day. His seat in physics class is right next to the door, and there's no way for her to leave the room without going near him.

Marinette tries to shove past him without talking. He just falls into step beside her.

"Hi, Marinette," he says, a little tremulously.

Marinette says nothing, hoping that he will take a hint. He does not.

"I, um," Adrien says nervously. "I wanted to say that I like your skirt."

"That's nice," Marinette says, her voice flat. She refuses to accept that as a genuine compliment. Sheś pretty sure that he's just trying to set her up for some mean joke at her expense. She keeps on walking, head held high.

At least, that's what she means to do. What she really does is trip over someone's abandoned backpack, tumble heavily down the stairs, and land in an unglamorous heap at the bottom.

 _Bad luck_ , Marinette thinks to herself.

"Oh my god," Adrien says. Marinette glances up to see him scrambling down the stairs to her side. It's actually a sort of comedic sight—the normally calm and reserved boy has instantaneously turned into a flailing, panicky mess. He hovers next to her, his hands half-reaching out for her, like he wants to help her up but he's too afraid to actually touch her. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Marinette says curtly. She climbs back up onto unsteady legs and smooths out her skirt.

"You're bleeding," Adrien says. Marinette glances down at herself, taking stock of her injuries. Her knees are a little roughed up, her elbows are sore, and there, on her right palm, is a small scrape, oozing blood in slow red droplets.

"It's nothing," Marinette says. She's already turning away when Adrien's fingers close around her wrist.

"Here," he says. Before Marinette has a chance to protest, he's pressing a small white handkerchief against the scrape, dabbing away gently at the blood. Marinette stands silently, staring at him in shocked awe, until he lifts his eyes up to meet her gaze.

 _Thank you_ , is what Marinette means to say.

"Who even carries handkerchiefs around anymore?" is what she says instead.

Adrien stiffens. "Is that weird?"

"N-no," Marinette says. "No, it's fine. You're fine! It's just unusual. Kind of old-fashioned. I mean..."

She trails off, lost in thought.

There is an old story her mother likes to tell her, when Marinette is feeling particularly down about her bad luck. Mme Cheng says that it's an ancient Chinese folktale, but Marinette is old enough now to know that when her mother says "ancient Chinese folktale" it's usually just code for "something I want you to actually pay attention to." It had been a very effective technique on a younger Marinette.

The story goes like this:

One day, an old farmer loses his only horse. His neighbors, feeling very sorry for him, come to visit and offer their condolences.

"What bad luck!" they say.

But the farmer shakes his head. "Good luck or bad luck?" he says. "Too soon to tell."

A few days later, the horse returns to the farmer, and with it an entire herd of wild horses. His neighbors visit again, to congratulate him on his good luck. "Good luck or bad luck?" the farmer says. "Too soon to tell."

The next day, the farmer's son is injured when he tries to train one of the wild horses. Good luck or bad luck?

The next day, the army comes to town and drafts all the healthy young men into the war, but the farmer's son is spared because of his injury. Good luck or bad luck?

A younger Marinette hadn't thought much of the story. Good luck was good luck and bad luck was bad. It was all just a meaningless parable, a feel-good story that was empty words and nothing more. But standing here, looking into Adrien's green, green eyes, suddenly the tale comes rushing back to her.

Adrien's hand lingers on her arm for a moment longer. The touch is electrifying for reasons that she doesn't understand. There is something stirring deep in her chest, an ache that she doesn't know how to name.

 _Good luck or bad luck?_ her mother's voice echoes in her head.

* * *

Two months later, Marinette still doesn't know the answer.

Despite Alya's earlier worries, she and Marinette arrive in their history classroom a few minutes before the bell rings. They take their seats near the front of the class, and Alya returns the conversation to the latest Ladybug news. Marinette mostly just nods along to everything Alya says, too afraid that she might slip-up and reveal something that she shouldn't know otherwise.

It's shaping up to be a perfectly normal morning at school. Marinette probably should have expected that it wouldn't last. Bad luck always has a way of finding her.

As the last few students straggle into the classroom, one of them has the misfortune to trip on his untied shoelace. His belongings fly from his hands and fall to the floor in a scatter of papers and notebooks, and Marinette winces sympathetically. She doesn't know Nathanaël very well, but they've been in the same class for a few years now. The poor boy is almost as unlucky as she is. She rises from her seat and goes to help him gather his things.

Unfortunately, she's not the only one. Chloé Bourgeois, who had been entering the classroom just behind Nathanaël, spots something she likes and goes to quickly snatch it up before he can.

It's a sketchbook. Nathanaël looks up at her, eyes wide with fear. Chloé smirks as she flips through the pad, glancing through the artwork contained within.

"Give it back, Chloé," Marinette says, rising to her feet to stand in front of the other girl. There's a quiet threat in her voice that makes Chloé lift an eyebrow.

"There's no need for all of that, Marinette," Chloé says pleasantly. She closes the sketchpad with an audible _thw_ _a_ _p_ , and returns it to a pale-faced Nathanaël. "I was only admiring dear Nath's _beautiful_ artwork."

It's a trap. Marinette has been the victim of enough of Chloé's torment to recognize a trap when she sees one, and she can see _exactly_ where this conversation is going. But poor, timid Nathanaël, who has gone mostly ignored by Chloé all these years, lights up with a shy smile.

"Y-you really think so?" he asks, hugging the returned sketchbook to his chest.

"Yeah," Chloé says, mock earnest. "I really love that abstract, modernist style you have going on. Most of those drawings were so wonky I couldn't even tell what they were supposed to be!"

Nathanaël takes in a sharp breath, and Chloé cackles in his face. Apparently satisfied with this reaction, she flips her hair over one shoulder, and makes her way to her seat. Chloé slides into a chair near Adrien, looking pleased as punch with her work for the morning.

Marinette's blood is boiling. Her hands curl into fists, and she wonders whether it would be worth getting detention just to punch Chloé in her stupid smug face.

She doesn't get a chance to make up her mind. While she's still deliberating with herself, a single black butterfly flies in through the window.

As if somehow responding to the magic, all eyes in the classroom are drawn towards the fluttering black wings. Instinctively, all the students recoil slightly when they see it. But there are only three people in that room understand just what they are seeing.

The first is Alya. She's got her cell phone out in an instant and has started streaming before the butterfly even reaches poor Nathanaël. "Reporting live from Paris, this is the one and only Ladyblog," she announces, before the other students have even had a chance to react.

The second is Adrien. He's out of his seat in an instant, reaching out towards Nathanaël. He puts a hand gently on his shoulder, and is murmuring soft, reassuring words, as if there was still some hope that he could prevent the inevitable.

The third is Marinette. Marinette has already accepted Nath's akumatization as unavoidable, not to mention _unfair—_ she is running on less than four hours of sleep, for crying out loud!—and she is already trying to pick out a safe spot to transform when Nathanaël is engulfed in dark purple light.

Marinette is the first one to dive for the door, which she props open with a textbook. "Go!" she yells at the other students. "Get out of here!"

Her fellow students, by and large, do not hesitate to flee. They make their way towards the doorway in a stampede, yelling and pushing as they try to escape. Alya is, of course, an exception, still standing as close as she dares to the freshly akumatized Nathanaël, holding her phone up and saying, "I repeat, I am live on the scene at Collège Françoise Dupont—"

She's cut off when she's knocked aside by Nathanaël—or whatever thing Nathanaël has become. Marinette gets her first glimpse of Papillon's newest villain, and hisses.

The villain doesn't seem very different from the way Nathanaël normally looks, but Marinette knows better than to think that means there's any trace of her classmate left in him. The villain is slightly paler than Nathanaël is, and his eyes slightly darker. He's dressed in pretty standard villain getup—striped black spandex, with a domino mask that does absolutely nothing to conceal his identity—and armed with something that looks like a pen.

He touches the pen to a tablet that's strapped to his left wrist. Marinette narrows her eyes, cogs turning in her head. Some kind of drawing-related magic?

But there will be time enough for that later. First things first, she needs to make sure that all her classmates escape safely.

"C'mon, Alya!" Marinette darts forward to where Alya has fallen and grabs her by the arm. Alya's still fumbling with her cell phone as Marinette wrenches her up to her feet and towards the doorway.

"The villain appears to able to conjure things out of thin air," Alya narrates to her blog. She struggles weakly against Marinette's grip, but Marinette keeps her hands firmly around Alya's arm. "No sign of Ladybug or Chat Noir yet at the scene—no, correction, Chat Noir has _just_ arrived here at the collège—"

Alya stumbles again, and ends the recording with a tap of her finger. "Save yourself, Marinette," Alya says, pulling herself out of of Marinette's grip. "I'm not missing out on this."

"Alya, it isn't safe—"

"Go!" Alya says, giving Marinette a little shove towards the doorway. "I'll be fine!"

Marinette grimaces. If she were Ladybug, she wouldn't hesitate to pick Alya up and drag her away from the scene. But Marinette is a lot weaker than Ladybug, and Alya, stubborn creature that she is, would be fighting against her the whole way. Grimly, she decides that the best thing she can do to help Alya right now is turn into Ladybug and purify the akuma as quickly as possible.

"Be careful!" Marinette calls back to Alya, despite knowing that it's a fruitless warning. Grumbling to herself, Marinette ducks into the hallway, searching for a safe place to transform.

The other classes must have caught on about the akuma incident. The school's courtyard is swarming with students trying to escape the building, a chaotic mess of bodies pushing against each other. Marinette dashes for the girls' bathroom instead, shoving past the other evacuating students as she runs. Mercifully, the bathroom is empty. She leans back against the door, barring anyone else from entering the room, and reaches for her purse.

"Tikki!" she calls out. Her kwami flies out of the purse, a blur of red. "Transform me!"

She's never gotten used to the feeling of Miraculous power washing over her, the vague dissonance that rattles through her body when suddenly her muscles are stronger, her mind is clearer. The transformation is almost painful, in a way. But the moment passes in an instant, and Ladybug is left standing where Marinette had been. She takes a moment to prepare herself, and then flies out of the bathroom.

Not even a minute later, Ladybug lands with a thud inside the classroom. Chat Noir glances her direction for a fraction of a second before returning his attention to the akumatized villain. With an easy swing of his staff, he bats away two magically conjured missiles, and they knock two solid dents into the far wall.

Alya, who is standing near the doorway mere feet away from where the missiles struck, still has her phone held up, recording the battle. "The Evillustrator seems to have the ability to create objects by drawing them on his tablet," she says, sounding completely unperturbed by the near-miss.

Ladybug grinds her teeth together. She doesn't have the energy to deal with an akuma attack today, much less to keep reckless civilians safe while in the midst of fighting. She dives for Alya, grabbing her around the waist, and physically hauls her outside the classroom. Alya, predictably, flails against the hold, but Ladybug carries her easily.

"Stay here!" Ladybug shouts, slamming the classroom door in Alya's face. She twists the lock, ignoring Alya's outraged protests from the other side, then turns back to the fight.

Her momentary distraction has cost her. While Ladybug had been dealing with Alya, the "Evillustrator," as she had called him, had begun to draw a cartoonishly large anvil over her head. Ladybug doesn't realize what's happening until she finds herself ominously surrounded by shadow.

"Look out!" Before she even has time to register what's going on, Chat Noir collides heavily with her chest. They hit the ground hard, and the force of the impact is enough to knock any coherent thought straight out of Ladybug's head. They are a mess of limbs, rolling across the floor, and despite Chat's protective hold, Ladybug's head collides hard with the tile. The pain jolts her back in to the moment—civilians in danger, akuma active, and Chat Noir is—grinning flirtatiously at her?

She shoves him away unceremoniously. He jumps back, landing lightly on his feet, and Ladybug has just climbed to her knees when her heart sinks.

They're already too late.

The Evillustrator finishes his latest drawing with one quick stroke of his pen, then twirls it between his fingers. She and Chat Noir are encased in a solid clear prison, and even as she rushes forward to pound her fists on the wall she knows that it'll be futile. The material holds firm, even as she pours every last ounce of her superstrength into the blow.

Chat Noir has Cataclysm ready at his fingertips in an instant, but the Evillustrator is faster. With one curving swoop of his pen, Chat Noir's hands are cuffed, held aloft by dangling chains connected to the ceiling of their prison. Chat strains against the bonds, but it's useless—the chains that are holding his wrists are just barely too far for his fingers to reach, and his restraints have left him no room for movement. He can't use Cataclysm on them—or anything else.

The Evillustrator is grinning now. He takes a step forward, and Ladybug runs down a rapidly dwindling mental list of options.

"Lucky Charm!" she shouts, holding out one hand. A solid metal baseball bat appears in her grip, and in one fluid motion she swings it against their clear plastic prison. It bounces back without even leaving a mark.

Ladybug staggers backwards and takes a moment to reevaluate their increasingly desperate situation. She wasted a lot of her magic on that useless Lucky Charm, and she doesn't have the energy to summon much of anything else. Behind her, Chat Noir is still wrestling fruitlessly with his chains. He's been effectively taken out of the fight.

The Evillustrator takes another step towards the box, and Ladybug's pulse speeds up into an uneven staccato. It'll be easy for him to end things now. One quick sketch, maybe two, and they're both dead. Ladybug takes in a few heavy breaths, trying to prepare for whatever the Evillustrator will throw at them next. She can only hope that her quick wits and whatever little creation magic she has left will be enough to counter his next attack.

The attack never comes. The Evillustrator watches her and Chat for a moment, then shrugs. "You two weren't so tough after all," he says, almost laughing. Ladybug is taken aback by his voice—it sounds almost normal. Before she has time to respond to him, though, he's flipped his pen eraser side down, and he makes a quick scribble on his tablet. As he moves the pen, pieces of the classroom wall vanish entirely out of existence, like they had been removed by a giant, reality-altering eraser. The Evillustrator ends up making a sizable hole in the wall and then hops through it, apparently content, disappearing from their sight.

Ladybug breathes out heavily and lets her shoulders sag. "Oh my god," she gasps out. "I thought we were dead."

"That was weird," Chat Noir says, sounding more subdued than normal. He waits a beat before asking, "So, any ideas on how we're going to get out of here?"

Ladybug glances over in his direction, examining the chains that are holding his hands up. There are no keyholes to be found, which in retrospect seems obvious. The Evillustrator probably hadn't cared enough to bother drawing them in. She surveys the situation, one hand on her hip, before the answer comes to her in a flash. _Of course_.

She strides forward and wraps her arms around Chat's hips. He makes a strangled sound of surprise that she ignores as she lifts him about a foot off of the floor. The chains around his wrist rattle and Chat Noir's head thumps lightly against the ceiling of their prison.

"There," she says. "You can reach it with your Cataclysm now."

"Brilliant as always, my Lady," Chat Noir says. He brushes his fingertips against the prison and it melts into nothing, along with the chains that were holding his wrists. Ladybug sets him back down and pretends that she doesn't notice the faint flush of red on his cheeks.

She takes a few steps towards the spot where the classroom's window used to be. Peering out, she can't see any obvious sign of where the villain went. Everything below looks perfectly normal, save for the gaggle of students across the street that are still gaping open-mouthed at the hole in the wall. The Evillustrator hasn't left a trail of wreckage in his path, or started dramatically monologuing on top of the Eiffel Tower. Ladybug's eyebrows draw together and her lips curls into a pout. Her transformation had gifted her with extra energy that she sorely needed, but there's only so much it can do in the face of Marinette's bone-deep exhaustion. This is the absolute last thing she needed today.

"No sign of him?" Chat Noir asks. He rests one hand lightly on her shoulder and leans close to her as he peers over the edge.

Ladybug should know better than to encourage his affections, but she leans back against his chest anyway. "I have a bad feeling about this," she mutters. "He had us trapped, and he just left us there. Why?"

"Maybe Papillon's after something else this time," Chat Noir guesses.

"No," Ladybug disagrees. "It's always been about the Miraculouses. Every time, from the very start. What else could he possibly want?"

"Maybe it was a mistake," Chat offers. "I don't know about you, but _I_ could stand to sneak in a few extra catnaps. Maybe Papillon's taking a break?"

"I doubt it," Ladybug says tersely. "We should split up and search Paris for him. I'll take the Île de la Cité and go north. You take Saint-Louis and go south. Come find me if you see anything unusual, even if the Evillustrator doesn't turn up."

"Got it." Chat Noir backs away from her, takes a few running steps, then somersaults gracefully out of the classroom. He lands easily on the ground below, startling the onlookers, then springs inhumanly far to a rooftop across the street.

 _S_ _how off_.

Ladybug uses her yoyo to pull herself up to the school's roof, then holds out one hand, palm facing downwards. "Miraculous Cure," she murmurs, summoning the last dregs of her magic. Her hand tingles with warmth as energy drains out of her and into the school, mending the damage that the Evillustrator had done to the wall. The window reappears, as perfectly as if it had never been damaged in the first place.

That fixed, Ladybug wearily swings over to the roof of her parents' bakery and lands heavily on the terrace above her bedroom. She takes cover amidst the potted plants that are threatening to overtake the entire terrace and lets her transformation melt off of her. A wispy red creature flies out of her earrings and flutters softly around her face.

"Ugh, Tikki," Marinette groans. "I feel terrible."

"You should have detransformed sooner," Tikki scolds lightly. She looks about as awful as Marinette feels, and is noticeably less opaque than she normally is. "We were using more of your energy than mine by the end."

"I knooowww," Marinette whines. She flops forward dramatically, lying face-down on the terrace. "I didn't even know it was possible for humans to feel this tired."

Tikki nuzzles against her cheek. The touch is surprisingly warm. "I know it's hard now, Marinette," she says soothingly, "but you're getting stronger, I can tell. Things will get easier with time, I promise."

That's something to look forward to, at least. Marinette climbs up to her knees and crawls over to the trapdoor that opens into her bedroom. She allows herself a brief moment to pull herself back together. "Okay, Tikki," she says, all business again. "I've got some cookies in my purse that you can eat. I'm going to sneak downstairs and see if I can get a few more before we head out. This search might take a long time."

She drops down into the hatch and starts slowly climbing the stairs down to her bedroom. About halfway down she actually _looks_ into her bedroom and ends up slipping on the steps. She flings out her arms wildly and manages to latch onto the railing, clinging to it desperately, and stays there frozen in place for a long, long moment.

The Evillustrator is sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor.

 _Badluckbadluckbadluck,_ Marinette thinks.

She takes a moment to assess the situation. The Evillustrator is sitting idly in the middle of her room, looking almost bored. Her far bedroom wall has a large hole in it, much like the one in the window at the collège that she had just fixed. Marinette guesses that was how he got into her room to start with, not more than five minutes ago, and apparently he had spent that time... waiting calmly for her to arrive. Nothing about the situation makes sense, but she's not going to let him see her stutter.

Another moment passes in silence. Marinette steadies herself on her feet and climbs down the last few steps into her bedroom. The Evillustrator doesn't move, but he keeps his eyes fixed on her. Marinette lifts her chin, crosses her arms over her chest, and says, "Well?"

"Um," the Evillustrator says awkwardly. He makes no motion to move.

"Aren't you going to attack me?" Marinette asks.

"Attack you?" the Evillustrator splutters. "N-no, of course not!"

At last, he finally clambers up to his feet. Marinette stands by the stairs, still in a defensive pose. "I wanted to... " the Evillustrator begins. Then he pauses. A slight blush has risen on his unnaturally pale cheeks. The rest of his words come out as a single breathless squeak. "Iwantedtoaskyouonadate?"

Marinette freezes where she stands, momentarily confused. Then she squares her shoulders and places her hands firmly on her hips. "If you think that you can intimidate me into dating you, you've got another thing coming," she growls.

The Evillustrator looks taken aback. "Intimidate you? Th-that's not—I mean—I just wanted to ask. The normal way."

Marinette opens her mouth, about to reject him out-of-hand. Then she thinks better of it and freezes there for a moment, her mouth still hanging half-open. She's piecing together the puzzle pieces in her mind, but somehow, some of them just don't seem to fit. Every villain that Papillon has ever created has been single-mindedly determined to steal their Miraculouses, and not a single one of them had ever had a trace of their normal personality left after they'd been transformed. But Nathanaël seems more or less like the same person, just with more superpowers.

He's still waiting for an answer. Marinette says the first the that comes to her mind.

"You call breaking into a girl's bedroom by knocking a hole in the wall _normal?_

It's not her most tactful moment. But instead of lashing out in blind rage, like she would have expected from any one of Papillon's previous akumas, the Evillustrator just glances guilty at the wall in question.

"Sorry," he apologizes, fumbling for his pen. Just minutes ago Marinette had watched him twirl the pen skillfully between his fingers, but he's suddenly become as clumsy as a toddler. The pen slips out of his grasp and clatters to the floor. Cursing under his breath, the Evillustrator snatches it up, and goes to sketch something on his tablet.

Marinette braces herself, but he still doesn't attack her. Just as the Evillustrator adds the finishing flourish to his drawing, the hole is her wall is suddenly—if imperfectly—bricked up. There are still obvious seams in the wall where the hole used to be, but it's nothing her creation magic can't fix later.

The Evillustrator looks at her expectantly. He's still waiting for an answer.

"Ye-es," Marinette says hesitantly. She shakes her head and clears her throat. " _Yes_ ," she repeats, sounding surer this time, " I would _love_ to go on a date with you."

The Evillustrator's face lights up with pure joy. Marinette actually feels a twinge of guilt for leading him on, but she pushes it back down quickly. She forces a small smile and the Evillustrator says, "O-okay, great. Great. Notre Dame at nine?" Marinette nods. "Great!" the Evillustrator says again. "I'llseeyoutherebye!"

Marinette watches silently as the Evillustrator heads downstairs, and she can only hope that her parents aren't around. She doesn't know how she would even begin to explain this to them.

Tikki waits until the sounds of the Evillustrator's footsteps have faded, then flies out from her hiding place. "Guess our search didn't last very long after all," she says. "But why did you agree to go on a date with him? I thought you liked _Adrien_."

"I do," Marinette says distantly. "But, Tikki, this could be an opportunity to finally get some answers about Papillon. Did you see the way he was acting? It was practically normal. Something strange is going on, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

Tikki makes a small sound of contemplation. "You might not get any answers at all," she cautions, landing lightly on Marinette's desk. "Dealing with an akumatized person is always risky, and even more so when you're not transformed. What if he becomes violent?"

Marinette smiles thoughtfully. "I think I have a plan," she says.


	4. you have plagued me

Adrien's pretty sure that Marinette hates him.

Only _pretty sure_ , mind you, because Marinette has never obvious about it. She's never said that she does, at least not to his face. She has always been perfectly civil with him—which is far more than she's ever done for Chloé. But _civil_ is pretty much where their entire relationship starts and ends.

It does seem like she's making an effort to be nice to him. They are friends-of-friends-of-friends, which means that they occasionally end up in the same group outings, and it would be awkward for everyone if they couldn't at least tolerate each other. Sometimes, on occasion, they even manage to make polite conversation, about the weather or their schoolwork or some joke that Nino made. But she never lets it go beyond that. Most of Adrien's clumsy, tentative attempts at friendship are met only with awkward silences and glazed eyes.

He understands why she doesn't like him, of course. That doesn't make it hurt any less.

If you tried to pin down the exact moment that everything went wrong, you might start with that first meeting, two ill-fated teenagers crossing paths on an ill-fated day. You might chalk it up to bad luck, spread your hands in defeat and say, _what else were you_ _expecting_ _, on Friday the 13th?_

You might, if you were a millenia-old cat deity trapped in a ring, say that things _really_ went wrong when an obnoxious, meddlesome old man chose two Parisian children to be the wielders of unimaginably huge cosmic power, subtly imbuing their entire lives with magic and thus ensuring that, for good or ill, their fates would be permanently intertwined. For reasons have never been clear to Plagg, this kind of magical entanglement never seems to go smoothly. In thousands and thousands of years of Ladybugs and Chat Noirs, there has never been a relationship between the two that could be called normal.

And you might, if you were Adrien, trace it all back to a moment that previous weekend, when Chloé Bourgeois's eyes lit up with particular delight as she read aloud from the latest issue of _Elle, "_ Scrunchies are not, and will never, be making a comeback."

Adrien's friendship with Chloé has always been a strange creature. At first glance, the two children have plenty in common: rich families, important names, distant fathers.

But what does any of that really mean, when it comes to friendship? Looking deeper, you would find that they are nothing at all alike. Adrien is soft where Chloé is hard, kind where she is selfish, forgiving where she is vengeful. Adrien is Paris's golden boy, made out of sunshine and smiles, adored by almost everyone who meets him. Chloé is the kind of girl that your mother warned you about.

There are some people in this world who get along so well that you might say they were made for each other. Chloé and Adrien are quite the opposite of that. You would be hard pressed to find anyone _less_ made for each other than they were.

And yet: rich families, important names, distant fathers. You wouldn't think that would make for much of a friendship, but here they were anyway.

So they were friends. They dance with each other at galas and go to the ballet together and sometimes, when Adrien has a gap in his schedule and Nathalie is feeling particularly benevolent, they even hang out like normal teenagers. Chloé comes over to his house and they eat junk food and watch movies and talk about the latest fashion.

At least, Chloé would talk about the latest fashion. She reads fashion magazines like a priest reads the Bible, and she is always eager to share her favorite pieces of the latest fashion gospel. Adrien, despite being the only son of and part time model for fashion mogul Gabriel Agreste, does not know anything about fashion. But he likes to listen to Chloé talk about things that make her happy. It is a welcome departure from Chloé talking about the many myriad things that _don't_ make her happy.

And somehow, this all adds up to a disastrous first meeting with Marinette Dupain-Cheng. It goes like this:

He does not see her at first. She is just one new face in a sea of strangers, and he is already so overwhelmed by everything—public school, classmates, teachers—that he does not pay any particular mind to one face in the crowd.

(Later, he will wonder about that. How, he marvels, was there ever a time and place in which Adrien Agreste's eyes were not immediately drawn to the love of his life? Where his gaze could just glance off of her, where he could be _indifferent_ about her? Reality, alas, is not always as poetic as Adrien's imagination.)

He does not see her when Chloé reaches out and grabs him by the wrist after class. And he certainly does not see her when Chloé flashes him one of her self-satisfied smirks and says, quoting from the very same issue of _Elle_ that she had been reading out loud to him that past weekend, "Scrunchies are not, and will never be making a comeback. Please leave them in the nineties where they belong."

Adrien, who has never been a very cunning person, does not wonder what Chloé is up to. He just smiles politely and finishes the quote.

"Anyone who wears scrunchies in this day and age should kindly escort themselves into the dumpster that they so obviously shop at," Adrien quips back. Chloé's grin widens, and for just a brief split second, he feels very pleased with himself. He is truly glad that he shares such a lovely friendship with Chloé, where they can have these kinds of intimate, inside jokes.

And _that_ is the moment he finally first sees Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

She is standing right next to him, petite and pale-skinned and wide-eyed. She's half a head shorter than he is, but full of so much energy that it makes her seem somehow bigger. Her cheeks are tinged slightly red, her hands curled into loose fists, as she sets her jaw and lifts her chin, looking him straight in the eye. There is a silent challenge in her expression.

Her hair, black as midnight and pin-straight, is held up in pigtails by two huge, bright pink scrunchies.

It was not Adrien's finest moment.

* * *

So, yes: Adrien's pretty sure that Marinette hates him.

It would be easier if he could just blame Chloé for it. She _had_ walked him straight into that, after all. But he was the one who said the words, who unthinkingly let her use him to take a cheap shot at some other girl she didn't like and... well. It was a nasty thing to say, whether he was quoting it off a magazine or not, and honestly, he doesn't see any reason why Marinette _should_ forgive him.

He likes to think that he has come to terms with that.

Still, when Ladybug tells him that he's supposed to _protect Marinette while she's on a date with the Evillustrator_ , a strangled choking noise claws its way out of his throat. Maybe he's not as at peace with the whole situation as he thought he was.

Ladybug arches one brow. Chat Noir coughs a few times to clear his throat and then asks, "What?"

"I don't think that the Evillustrator will be a serious threat to her safety," Ladybug explains, "but I want you there in case something goes wrong." Ladybug hesitates a moment, then adds, almost wistfully, "She's just a civilian, after all."

Chat is still reeling. When Ladybug had said that they needed to talk, he had expected... well, he doesn't know what he'd expected. But it definitely wasn't this. Ladybug has always been someone who preferred to outsmart her enemies, of course, favoring clever plans over open fighting, but none of those plans have ever intentionally involved a civilian before. It doesn't sit well with him.

"Why are we even letting her get involved?" he asks. "Wouldn't if be better if we just ambushed the Evillustrator and fought him the normal way?"

"That's the thing, kitty," Ladybug says. She turns her gaze away from him and towards the city that spreads out beneath them, her eyes roaming over far distant streets. He doesn't know what she's looking for, but she must find it, her eyes eventually settling on a spot near the horizon. "This akuma _isn't_ normal. I've never..."

She trails off, and then shakes her head. "I don't know, Chat Noir," she murmurs. "Papillon is up to something. He's changing his tactics. We need to find out what's going on."

"His villains have been getting stronger," Chat acknowledges, "but I don't see what Marinette has to do with any of this."

"The Evillustrator likes her. She can get close to him. Question him. Maybe even grab that pen of his if she's lucky."

"No," Chat says immediately. Ladybug glances back at him, her lips pursed together in a puzzled expression. "That's too dangerous. We can't ask a civilian to do that for us."

"I didn't have to ask her to do anything," Ladybug says curtly. "The Evillustrator found her before I did. And anyway, she's not going to be in any danger, because _you're_ going to be there making sure that she doesn't get hurt!"

The tone of her voice brooks no argument. Chat Noir hesitates a moment, biting down on the inside of his cheek. He's glad that she has so much faith in him, but he still can't see any justification for putting a civilian intentionally in harms way, willing or not. It goes against every instinct.

On the other hand, he doesn't really see what else he can do agree to her plan. He's only really known Ladybug for a few months now, but in that time she has grown as familiar to him as the well-worn pages of a favorite book. He knows which pages have been dog-eared, where all the typos are, and exactly how the story will end—namely, that Ladybug won't back down on this. She rarely backs down about anything. So he bites back all the objections that are on the tip of his tongue, even if it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"What about you?" he asks instead. "Why won't you be there?"

"I'm following a different lead," Ladybug says. She relaxes slightly, tension easing from her shoulders, as she realizes that she's won the argument. "Looking for ways to take the fight to Papillon himself, instead of fighting his puppets."

"I'd feel better if you were with me," Chat Noir says, a last-ditch effort to get her to change her mind. "This could be really dangerous—wouldn't it be better if we were both there?"

"You'll be fine," Ladybug assures him breezily. "I know you won't let anything happen to her."

"If you say so, My Lady," Chat Noir says, sounding distant.

If the look in his eyes is anything to go off of, he is not nearly as certain about that as she is.

* * *

In light of the morning's events, the school decides to cancel classes for the day. It's the fifth time they've closed school for akuma-related incidents, though only the second time that the school was directly involved. When Marinette detransforms in an alley near her parents' bakery, she discovers a dozen new text messages from Alya, updating her on the unfolding situations with both the Evillustrator and the school. Marinette thumbs through the messages with a weary sigh, and decides that answering Alya can wait until after she's had a nap.

Sluggishly, Marinette trudges into her family's bakery. The bell over the door tinkles pleasantly, drawing her father's attention from the back of the shop as she walks in. He turns towards the doorway, looming large over the front counter, grinning broadly.

"Oh, Marinette," he says when he realizes that she's not a customer. He glances upward uncertainly. "I thought you were already home," he says slowly, as if half-expecting her to descend from the family's apartment above.

Marinette laughs nervously. "I was," she says, "but I had to go out again. I, uh, forgot my bag at school."

Her father seems to accept this excuse, although he is frowning now. Marinette makes her way towards the back of the shop, squeezing behind the bakery counter, and her father stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder before she can escape into the stairwell to their apartment.

"Be careful when you go outside," he says. He tries to cover his concern with a light-hearted tone, but Marinette can still hear the worry underneath. "It's dangerous, you know, with that akumatized boy still out there..."

"Oh, Papa," Marinette says. She reaches forward to pull him into a quick hug. "It was fine. I'm not hurt."

"I know," M. Dupain says, lightly hugging her back. "But I'm your father. Worrying is what I'm supposed to do."

His attentions are diverted when the bell over the shop's door rings again, this time announcing the arrival of a genuine customer. M. Dupain returns to his work and Marinette slips away, wearily climbing up the three flights of stairs to her bedroom.

"Oh, Tikki," she mutters to her kwami. "What a weird day—"

She stops abruptly just as she's climbed through the door to her bedroom. Marinette breathes in slowly. Out of the corner of her vision she sees the toe of a black boot, looking decidedly out of place in her pink-hued bedroom. Almost reluctantly, Marinette drags her eyes up the leg attached to the boot, and she presses her lips into a thin line when she discovers that the leg is attached to an entirely too familiar face.

Sitting awkwardly on the edge of her chaise lounge is none other than Chat Noir himself, looking slightly startled.

Marinette breathes out heavily, and she stomps up into her room. Tikki makes herself scarce. "What is _wit_ _h_ costumed boys breaking into my room today?" she mutters, slamming the door behind her.

"O-oh," Chat Noir says nervously. That, as much as anything today, makes Marinette want to laugh. Chat Noir is normally so suave and overconfident, she almost wouldn't have believed he could _be_ nervous. But here he is, hands clasped together tightly over his knees, as he fixes his gaze solidly on the floor by her feet. "I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I—um—I didn't think—"

"What are you doing here?" Marinette demands, crossing her arms over her chest.

Chat Noir blinks, and after a pause he seems to morph into an entirely different person. He stands up smoothly, bows slightly, and flashes her his biggest, flirtiest grin. "I'm here to rescue a damsel in distress, of course. I hear that you've got an Evillustrator problem, and I'm here to help."

Marinette fights the temptation to roll her eyes. _This was not part of the plan._

"Oh my goodness," Marinette says, trying to keep her temper under control. It wouldn't do her any good to start antagonizing Chat Noir after all the convincing it took just to get him to agree to this mission. "I'm flattered, M. Noir, really, but I think you're a little early—the date isn't until tonight?"

Chat Noir fidgets awkwardly where he stands. "We don't know what the Evillustrator is planning," he says, voice sounding strangely strained. "Ladybug thought it would be safer if I kept an eye on you until then, just in case he does something unexpected."

Marinette covers her mouth with one hand and looks away. Chat Noir is a terrible liar, and for some reason she finds it terribly funny. She spends a moment trying to regain her composure, and once she manages that she smiles prettily at him.

"Oh, that _does_ make me feel much safer!" Marinette exclaims with forced cheerfulness. She wonders whether it would be too over-the-top to swoon.

Chat flashes her one of his huge, cheshire grins. Something about his face makes her irritation slowly fade away, replaced instead with a strange affection bubbling in her chest. She's still a little annoyed that he couldn't have at least knocked first, of course, but there's a comforting familiarity in his presence. Marinette hardly needs Chat Noir to sit around protecting her, but maybe he's right—it might be nice to have him around in case something unexpected happens.

Of course, Marinette is still completely exhausted, and with no time commitments between now and her date with the Evillustrator, she is hardly going to let a little thing like Chat Noir interfere with getting her plans to get some much-needed rest. If he wants to sit around and watch her sleep, then honestly, she doesn't really care. "Well," Marinette says, heading towards her bed, "after all that excitement today, I think I need to take a nap."

Marinette starts to climb the steps up to her loft, and Chat Noir suddenly looks nervous again. "Oh—I, er—I can go wait outside, if you prefer?" he suggests, voice strained. "I'll keep watch from your balcony."

Marinette waves one hand at him dismissively, then settles comfortably under her sheets. "Isn't it a little cold for that? Stay here, I don't mind, just don't make too much noise."

Chat makes a small sound of protest, but Marinette is already asleep.

* * *

Adrien, having been homeschooled his entire life, is not well-versed in social situations that aren't posh, upper-class parties or private tutoring lessons. That said, he's pretty sure that this is extremely awkward, as far as social situations go.

Marinette spends the first three hours of their time together sleeping. Chat Noir tries to avoid watching her while she does—it feels weirdly intimate. Instead he distracts himself with the seemingly endless baubles that decorate Marinette's room: her walls are plastered with cutouts from fashion magazines, her desk is heaped with half-finished sewing projects, and there are a dozen ceramic animals sitting in a careful arrangement on her windowsill. There are beads dangling from her closet, a dreamcatcher over her bed, six chrysoberyl gemstones that rest atop a throne made of yarn and knitting needles and crochet hooks. Marinette's bedroom might be a fraction of the size of his own, but it has so much more _life_ crammed into its tiny space.

He stares at her room, eyes crawling over every surface, until eventually he begins to feel slightly awkward about that, too. Like he's invading her privacy or something. Chat Noir eventually settles down by her window and turns his gaze outside instead, monitoring the crowds below for any hint of trouble. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. It is not much of a distraction.

After about twenty-minutes of people watching, his mind starts to wander. He works a little bit on some art-themed puns, only half-watching the crowds at this point. He _easel-y_ comes up with a few, though most of them are pretty lame, even by his standards.

He's trying to work out a pun using _paint_ and _pain, w_ hen Marinette finally wakes up, lifting her head up from her pillow and casting bleary eyes about her room. She stares at him blankly for a moment, confused.

"What are you doing here, kitty cat?" she asks sleepily.

Chat Noir opens his mouth to begin to explain, but then Marinette shakes her head. "Never mind. I remember now," she murmurs. She climbs out of bed, her hair sticking up every which way, and settles down in her desk chair.

She doesn't say anything else. Marinette starts working on some homework, and Chat Noir continues his watch-slash-punmaking, and the next few hours pass in a strange, companionable quiet. She breaks the silence a few times, to ask him if he's hungry or to announce that she's going to grab something from downstairs and on one occasion to ask for help with her physics homework, but largely they spend their time together without speaking.

At half past eight, Marinette sets down her pencil and closes her textbook. "Alright," she says, standing up. "Turn around, I have to change."

Chat Noir finds himself obeying before he's even fully processed what she's said. He's already turned to face the nearest wall, hands clasped behind his back, when he hears the rustling of clothes behind him. "O-oh, I can leave the room, if you'd prefer?" he offers, wincing a little at how painfully awkward he sounds.

"It's fine," Marinette says casually, "just don't peek."

Chat spends the next minutes carefully analyzing the pastel pink of Marinette's wall, trying to think more about the imperfect little bubbles and flecks in the paint than about the sound of zippers being pulled, clasps being undone, and clothes rustling on their hangers.

He wonders if this is normal behavior for teenage girls. Do they usually trust total strangers enough to change in the same room as them? Then again, Chat Noir _is_ kind of a superhero. Maybe that makes things different? He resolves to ask Chloé about it later—not that she's exactly a typical Parisian teenager. On second thought, maybe he won't ask. Maybe—

"Okay, you can look now," Marinette says. Slowly, Chat Noir turns around.

Marinette is standing in front of her mirror, mouth full of bobby pins, as she carefully works her hair into an elaborate updo. She's swapped her casual jersey knit dress for something blue and satiny. Her skirt flutters slightly around her knees whenever she moves her arms, expertly twisting locks of hair into a stunning arrangement that wouldn't look a bit out of place in one of his father's photoshoots. She finishes the look by delicately working in a silver floral hair clip just behind her right ear.

"Well?" she asks, a little cheekily. Marinette turns to face him, one hand on her hip, smiling impishly. Now that she's facing him, he can see the delicate silver beadwork adorning the front of her dress, a swirling floral design that's perfectly matched to her hair clip. The dress is high-collared but sleeveless, so Marinette has draped a gauzy black wrap over her shoulders, though Chat doubts that it'll do much to guard against the autumn chill.

It also does little to conceal the ugly gash that's stretching across her left bicep. It's a nasty cut, and it looks deep. Chat Noir frowns.

"What happened to your arm?" he asks, talking half a step closer to her.

Marinette waves him away with one hand. "An accident in the bakery," she says, almost sheepishly. "I'm a _total_ klutz and, like, the unluckiest person in all of Paris."

Chat Noir somehow finds himself smiling slightly. "You're talking to the human embodiment of bad luck, _m_ _a ch_ _ère_ ," he says. "I think I've got you beat."

"Oh?" Marinette asks. She presses one finger to her lips and her eyes sweep up and down over his body, as if inspecting him. "You don't seem that unlucky to me. Magic superpowers, cool costume, pretty face..."

"Pretty face?"

"As if you didn't know." Marinette rolls her eyes. "Do you break a lot of mirrors? Spill a lot of salt?"

Chat pauses a moment in contemplation. "No," he eventually says. "Actually—I don't think I've ever broken a mirror in my life," he admits. "I guess that's kind of ironic."

There's a flicker of something in Marinette's eyes, an expression that he can't quite name. The exaggerated playfulness fades away, leaving behind something that's softer. More sincere. "That _is_ ironic," she agrees, almost solemnly. "I've broken twelve mirrors in the past seven years. Bad luck really seems to love me."

"I'll try to avoid crossing your path," Chat jokes.

That succeeds in bringing back Marinette's smile. She grins at him, eyes twinkling, and says, "Don't bother. I've been unlucky since the day I was born."

"Oh?"

"August 13th," Marinette says, waggling her eyebrows at him. Her expression has turned dark and mischievous.

Chat Noir spends a moment trying to figure out the significance of the date. After a moment, the realization dawns on him. "Oh no," he murmurs, shaking his head sympathetically. "Don't tell me..."

"Yes," Marinette confirms. She sighs dramatically and presses one hand to her forehead in a fake swoon. "It was a Friday."

"Wow," Chat says, wincing slightly. "That really _is_ unlucky."

"Well, hopefully luck is on my side tonight," Marinette says, turned serious again. "Come on, tomcat. I've got a date to get to."

* * *

She meets the Evillustrator at exactly nine o'clock, standing in front of the Notre Dame cathedral while the bells chime the hour. The area is normally swarming with tourists, but something about the surprise appearance of an akumatized supervillain makes them all keep their distance. The young couple are left in relative solitude as the Evillustrator uses his magic first to conjure up half a dozen red roses, then a small barge at the edge of the Seine. Marinette lets him help her into the boat, and then they sit side by side as the barge floats lazily up and down the river.

Their conversation meanders at first, idle chit-chat about schoolwork and classmates and teachers. She uses the discussion to feel out her opponent, checking for any hint of the blind rage that was so characteristic of Papillon's other akuma victims. When she finally feels confident that the Evillustrator is not on the verge of breaking out into villainous monologuing, she leans in slightly closer to him, and starts the real interrogation.

"So," she says, trying to sound as casual as possible. "What kind of powers do you have? Other than making your drawings come to life, I guess."

The Evillustrator gives her a half-hearted shrug, still focused on drawing the musical notes that curl up off of his tablet in a slow, tinkling melody. "I don't know. I haven't tried to do anything else."

Marinette leans back against her seat and dares to gently touch the Evillustrator's arm with her hand. He glances up at her, eyes wide, before quickly looking away. Marinette can't tell in the dark, but she thinks he might be blushing.

"Do you have any super strength?" Marinette asks, keeping her voice light and friendly. "Enhanced reflexes?"

"I, um," the Evillustrator begins nervously. He swallows audibly. "I'm not really sure, I suppose."

Marinette pulls away slightly, and forces herself to keep smiling. The Evillustrator might be cooperating with her, but he hardly seems to know anything more than she does. It makes for a pretty lackluster interrogation. He returns to his drawing, devoting his full attention back to his art, and while he's distracted, Marinette allows herself a quick glance upwards towards the rooftops. She catches the slightest glimpse of a shadow as Chat Noir darts from one building to the next.

Feeling emboldened, Marinette leans back in towards the Evillustrator, close enough that their heads are almost touching. He glances up nervously from his drawing, and the slow music fades into silence once again. "Can I ask you something kind of weird?"

"O-of course, Marinette."

"Why aren't you... doing supervillain things?" Marinette asks. She fiddles a little with her shawl. "I mean, I don't think that any of the others went out on dates while they were transformed."

"I'm still me, Marinette," the Evillustrator says, sounding almost hurt. "Papillon gave me powers. He didn't change my personality."

Marinette narrows her eyes. "Not at all?" she asks, feigning curiosity. "You're really just normal Nathanaël under there?"

"Who else would I be?"

"I guess that makes sense," Marinette says. She presses one hand to her cheek and turns away, not trusting herself to keep her expression straight.

She doesn't know Nathanaël that well, she'll admit. But they've been in the same class for a few years now, and all of this—the grandiose gestures, the unsubtle romantic overtures—seems uncharacteristic. Maybe there's something of the same person at the core of the Evillustrator, but he is unquestionably different from Nathanaël. He's bolder, more confident, less considerate... Marinette sucks in a breath and files away her thoughts for later consideration.

"So Papillon's not controlling you?"

"No," the Evillustrator says. Again, he pauses from his drawing. Their barge passes under a bridge and for a moment they are shrouded in darkness. When they emerge on the other side, the Evillustrator looks thoughtful, twirling his pen between his fingers. "Papillon is more like... a voice in my head."

Marinette's eyes widen, but she stays silent.

"He wants me to go after Ladybug and Chat Noir," the Evillustrator continues. "To take their Miraculouses. I told him that I didn't want to, and he—I don't know what he did, but it hurt. He didn't control me, though."

"You can talk to him?" Marinette asks, forcing herself to keep her voice level.

The Evillustrator nods. "He can see everything I see. Hear what I hear."

"He reads your mind?"

The Evillustrator furrows his brow. "I don't think so," he says. "I have to talk out loud for him to understand me."

"So why aren't you out there looking for Ladybug and Chat Noir right now?"

The Evillustrator shakes his head. "It's not like that. He can't force me to do anything. I'm not his slave. We have... I guess you'd call it a truce. I _will_ get the Miraculouses for him. But until then, I'm free to do what I want."

Marinette smiles sweetly. "Of course you are," she says.

She doesn't look towards the sky, this time. The Evillustrator is staring straight at her, looking right into her eyes, and she doesn't want to do anything that might tip him off to her true intentions. She reaches out and rests her hand gently over his, and both of them are slowly, _slowly_ leaning in.

Marinette closes her eyes, and tilts her head gently to the right. The Evillustrator leans in and their lips meet in a soft, chaste kiss.

Then she grabs his pen.

She pulls it out of his grip easily, and before he can respond she practically throws herself away from him. The Evillustrator sits for a moment in shocked surprised, unmoving, as Marinette makes a dash for the far side of the barge. The boat sways unsteadily beneath her feet when she runs, and she grabs the edge to steady herself.

It's at about this moment that Marinette realizes that she hasn't exactly thought out this plan beyond _g_ _et_ _the pen_. She's got the akumatized object, but she can't exactly transform into Ladybug right now. She's trapped on a boat, with nowhere to go, and she might have stolen the source of the Evillustrator's biggest, most impressivepower, but she's pretty sure that he's still stronger and faster than she is.

"You used me," the Evillustrator says dully.

Marinette spares a moment to glance back at where he's sitting. He hasn't moved, but his posture has grown stiff. He doesn't look at her when he speaks. His eyes are fixed out on some uncertain point in the Seine River, glazed and unfocused.

"I should have known." The Evillustrator stands up slowly, and Marinette can see that his hands are trembling. "You're just like Chloé. Did you think it was fun to lead me on?"

Marinette makes an indignant noise somewhere in the back of her throat. "I am _not—_ "

She doesn't get a chance to finish her sentence. The Evillustrator lunges at her and the whole boat rocks. Marinette manages to dodge him the first time, ducking under his arms, but she's not quick enough to escape him a second. He tackles her to the ground and they both fall heavily. The pen skitters across the bottom of the boat.

The Evillustrator doesn't attempt to take it back. He doesn't even glance at it. He has Marinette pinned to the ground, and there's something cold and cruel in his eyes.

 _He wants to kill me_ , Marinette realizes. Her blood suddenly runs cold.

"I was so stupid," the Evillustrator spits. Marinette lashes out against him, but he knocks her hands away easily. His fingers curl around her throat, choking off her air. "You're both the same."

Marinette claws ferociously at his hands, digging her nails into his skin, but the Evillustrator hardly seems to notice. He tightens his grip around her neck, and Marinette begins to feel dizzy.

She needs to transform. Ladybug would be able to fight off the Evillustrator easily. But it is awfully difficult coax the words _transform me_ out of your mouth without any air in your lungs, and Marinette doesn't seem to be able to make any sound other than a sad little gurgling noise.

Marinette turns her eyes towards the sky. It's a starless, moonless night, the cloud cover leaving nothing but blackness above. It's so dark that she almost doesn't notice the shadow descending towards her until its glowing green eyes appear above her head.

Chat Noir slams into the Evillustrator, and they both go rolling. Marinette scrambles to her feet, gasping for air. She wastes no time watching the boys fight, and dashes for the Evillustrator's pen instead. She snatches it up just as the boat rocks heavily, knocking her back down to her knees.

A glance back over her shoulder reveals that Chat Noir has been disarmed and that he's fighting the Evillustrator with nothing but his hands. It's a fairly even fight. Marinette whirls back around, her gaze roving over the barge until she spots a glimmer of silver.

She strides purposefully towards Chat Noir's fallen staff. When she gets closer to it, she bites down on the akumatized pen, holding it between her teeth like a pirate, and grabs the fallen weapon with both hands. She raises it up above her head and runs straight at the Evillustrator.

He doesn't notice her until it's too late. Marinette gets the briefest glimpse of his wide, terrified eyes before she brings the staff down over his head with a loud _crack_. The Evillustrator collapses in a pile at her feet. The boat rocks again, and Marinette sways unsteadily. The Evillustrator doesn't stir.

Chat Noir is breathing heavily. If Marinette hadn't known better, she might have said that it was from the exertion of the fight.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly.

Marinette spits the Evillustrator's pen into her hand. "Just fine," she says airily. She's a little surprised by how true it is. Her neck is sore and she's sure that there will be a ring of bruises around it by tomorrow morning, but standing here, having beaten the Evillustrator with no magic and no superpowers, she honestly feels pretty great.

Chat Noir takes a few steps towards her, his eyes fixed on her neck. "Ladybug should never have asked you to try to take the pen away from him," he says grimly. "I'm sorry."

"Ladybug didn't ask me to do anything." Marinette holds out his staff to him, and he takes it back from her gently. "I just saw an opportunity, and I thought I would take it."

From the floor, the Evillustrator groans and starts to sit up, clutching at his head. Both Chat Noir's and Marinette's eyes immediately dart over to him.

"Give me the pen," Chat Noir says quietly, holding out one hand. His eyes don't move from the Evillustrator. Marinette hands it over without hesitation.

"Are you going to take it to Ladybug?"

"No need," Chat Noir says. He snaps the pen in half and a small black butterfly flies out from it. Chat lets the pieces fall and reaches out to snatch the butterfly in one hand. It flutters helplessly against his hold, one wing pinched between his thumb and his forefinger.

"Sorry, little butterfly," he says, almost ruefully. A single spot of decay appears on one wing, then slowly spreads, eating away at the butterfly until it has disintegrated into nothingness. The Evillustrator transforms back into Nathanaël.

Marinette stares open-mouthed and the space where the butterfly used to be. "I didn't know you could do that," she says distantly.

"I don't like to do it." Chat Noir steps towards Nathanaël and kneels down by his side, inspecting the lump on his head thoughtfully. "It's kind of unpleasant."

 _Unpleasant_ was certainly a way of putting it. Marinette thinks that she prefers her method.

Chat Noir rises to his feet, swinging a very confused and only semi-conscious Nathanaël over his shoulders. "I'm going to take him to the hospital," Chat explains. "I think he might have a concussion. Will you be able to get home on your own?"

Marinette laughs softly. "It's not that far away," she says. "I think I can handle it."

Chat Noir nods his head at her in parting. "Until next time, _ma cherie,_ " he says, and then leaps to the sky.

Marinette watches him until he disappears, then turns to her purse. Tikki flies out the second she cracks it open.

"Marinette—"

"I know, Tikki," Marinette interrupts. "But it was fine. _I'm_ fine."

Tikki sighs, then floats forward to touch Marinette's cheek. "I won't lecture you, then," her kwami says sagely. Marinette leans into the touch, closing her eyes. "You were very brave today. I'm not happy about everything, but I _am_ proud of you."

"Thanks, Tikki," Marinette murmurs. "Come on. I think it's time we had a chat with a certain cat."

* * *

She waits for him on top of the Notre Dame. Somehow, he knows where to find her. It's a weird magic that Ladybug has never really understood, but he always seems to know where she is when she needs him to. There is a strange, tenuous connection between them that never fails to bring him to her. Sometimes, on rare occasions, she thinks that she can sense him too, the slightest whisper of a location prickling at the back of her mind. But the tug has never been strong enough to bring her to him.

Chat Noir is normally as silent as a shadow, so she knows that the faint sound of impact when he lands on the roof is entirely for her benefit. He walks delicately across the slanted roof of the north tower, careful with his steps, until he's just inches away from her.

He doesn't say anything. Ladybug tilts her head bad slightly to look at him. She can't make out much of his face in the darkness, but she can see his eyes, two spots of light against the night. They are cold and hard. Chat Noir is _angry._

"Marinette almost died because of us," he finally says, his voice flat.

Ladybug huffs. "No she didn't."

"And how would you know?" Chat snaps. Ladybug is slightly taken aback—has he _ever_ snapped at her before?—but Chat doesn't seem to notice. "You weren't there. You don't even know what happened!"

Ladybug rolls her eyes, because she _does_ even know what happened, thank you very much. Not that she can tell Chat Noir that, of course.

"Yes, but _you_ were there," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "And I knew that you wouldn't let anything happen to her. I'm sure that whatever happened, she's just fine."

Something changes in Chat Noir's expression, the briefest flicker of doubt. "She got hurt, Ladybug." All the anger has drained out of his tone. Now, he just sounds sad. Ladybug feels a twinge of sympathy for him, and she almost wishes that she could tell him the truth.

"But you saved her," she says gently.

Chat Noir closes his eyes and breathes out heavily. "I can't do that again," he says. "I don't—we can't ask civilians to do that for us."

Ladybug bites down on her lower lip. "Okay," she eventually agrees. She doubts that she'll have another opportunity to pull a stunt like that, anyway. She hesitates a moment, letting a comfortable silence sit between them, before she asks, "So, what did you find out?"

Chat spends the next ten minutes recounting facts that she already knows. Ladybug listens diligently anyway, taking note of anything that stands out to her. They discuss their findings in low murmurs, volleying ideas and theories back and forth, but they keep ending up in the same place: they still don't know much of anything.

The Evillustrator gave them some insight about how Papillon's powers work. He didn't give them any insight about why this attack had been so different from all the previous ones.

Ladybug is just about to give it up and call it a night when she notices Chat Noir staring thoughtfully at her. He catches her eye and then looks away.

"What?" she asks.

"It's nothing," Chat Noir says quickly. "Just a silly thought."

"Well, I'm all ears," Ladybug says, smiling. "We've already run out of serious thoughts. Maybe silly is just the breakthrough we need."

"It wasn't about Papillon," Chat Noir admits. Ladybug arches one brow. "I just—your hair. It looks nice."

Her hair? Ladybug reaches up and gently touches her head. Her hair is still twisted up into a loose chignon, knocked slightly askew by her fight with the Evillustrator.

It is exactly the same hairstyle Chat Noir saw on Marinette not even an hour ago.

Ladybug feels a slight panic coming on. Has Chat recognized her? But when he turns back to meet her gaze again, there's no recognition in his eyes, no sign that he meant anything by the comment other than to compliment her. She relaxes slightly.

Of course he hasn't recognized her. That's not how the magic works.

"So," Chat eventually says, "what do you think Papillon's next move is going to be?"

Ladybug closes her eyes. The November wind is cool on her face, the sounds of the city quiet beneath her. "I don't know," she admits. "But I'm worried."

She feels the light press of Chat Noir's hand on her shoulder, and she shifts slightly to look at him. Chat's glowing green eyes are inches away from her face, and all his previous frustration seems to have melted away.

"It'll be okay, LB," he says, squeezing her shoulder. "Whatever he's planning next, we'll be able to handle it."

"Yeah," Ladybug agrees weakly.

But privately, she doubts.


	5. deprived of glory

Marinette wears scarves and turtlenecks for the next two weeks. Every time Adrien sees her, he _burns_ with guilt.

In the third week, she ditches the high-collared look for a low-cut pink damask blouse. The bruises on her neck have faded to pale yellow and go unnoticed by their classmates, but Adrien can still see them, the faint imprints of the Evillustrator's fingers around her throat.

Marinette sits directly behind him in history class, and it's only thanks to fourteen years of his father drilling social etiquette into him that Adrien manages to resist turning around in his chair to stare openly. Mme Bustier's literature class is an entirely different story. There, Marinette sits a row ahead of him and several seats to his left. It's all too easy for his gaze to wander back to her, and it's not long before he gives up any pretense of paying any attention to the teacher.

After about twenty minutes into this, he earns himself a gentle nudge in the ribs from Nino. Adrien finally tears his eyes away from Marinette's neck and finds that Nino is watching him with a strange expression, somewhere halfway between incredulity and mirth.

" _Dud_ _e_ ," he hisses in a low whisper. "You look like you want to eat Marinette alive."

Adrien furrows his brow. "What does that even mean?" he whispers back.

"Bro," Nino says, disbelieving, "I can tell what you're looking at." Adrien glances between Nino and Marinette a few times. Still not understanding, he raises a single eyebrow in a silent question.

Nino shakes his head. "It's cool, man, you don't have to be weird about it. It's not like you're the first guy that's noticed Marinette."

Adrien's eyes widen. _Oh_.

There are so many things wrong about that statement that Adrien doesn't even know how to begin refuting it.

"I don't think you're using that expression correctly," Adrien finally settles on.

"Dude," Nino whispers back, "I'm trying to be, like, _subtle_ about the way you were totally ogling—"

"Can we not?" Adrien interrupts hurriedly. "Anyway, that's not even what I was doing."

Nino looks skeptically at him. "Are you sure?"

" _Yes_ ," Adrien says emphatically. Perhaps too emphatically—he draws glances from a few of their classmates, including Marinette. Their eyes meet for just a moment, and then she quickly looks away. "Yes," Adrien says again, in a quieter whisper this time.

Nino makes a disbelieving sound, but turns his attention back to the teacher. Mme Bustier is still lecturing cheerfully about Victor Hugo's moral crusade to preserve Gothic architecture, apparently oblivious to Adrien's teenage drama. Adrien tries to pay attention, he really does, but when she starts reading a particularly long and dull passage from _The Hunchback of Notre Dame,_ all of this thoughts immediately go back to Marinette.

She had gotten hurt. She could have _died_.

Adrien had always known that, theoretically, the villains Papillon created were capable of doing lasting harm. That all the destruction and the chaos and the violence could end in real casualties. But somehow the stakes had never seemed real until the Evillustrator had closed his fingers around Marinette's neck.

It's an uncomfortable truth, one that he's been avoiding for as long as he's been Chat Noir. But now that it's been pushed to the forefront of his mind, he can't ignore it any longer. Papillon is dangerous. _Really_ dangerous. He's kept it tame so far, but human lives clearly don't mean anything to him. He doesn't care about innocent civilians who get caught up in... whatever it is that Papillon's doing.

His stomach churns unpleasantly. When the ring had first appeared in his bedroom, all those weeks ago, it had felt like freedom. He had not realized that by putting it on he would become responsible for the safety of millions of innocent Parisians, helpless bystanders caught in the middle of a war that even Adrien doesn't fully understand.

"You're still staring," Nino says, jolting Adrien out of his thoughts.

"I am not," Adrien replies automatically. Nino rolls his eyes, clearly not fooled.

"So you probably don't know the answer to number one, huh?" he says, sighing.

Number one? Adrien blinks a few times, then glances back towards the front of the classroom. Mme Bustier is seated at her desk, looking over a pile of papers thoughtfully. On the chalkboard behind her she has written out _DISCUSSION QUESTIONS_ in large, swooping letters, and beneath it five numbered questions that, presumably, Adrien is supposed to be discussing.

"Um... no, sorry," Adrien mumbles, looking guiltily at his blank notebook.

"Hey, what about you, Alya?" Nino says, leaning forward.

Alya, sitting in the seat directly in front of Nino, has gotten out her phone instead of working on the discussion questions. She is typing away furiously on it, her thumbs moving faster than Adrien would have thought possible. "Not now, Nino," she says. "I've gotta finish this post for the Ladyblog before the news gets stale."

Discreetly, Adrien glances towards the back of the classroom. Rose, who had been akumatized just last night, doesn't seem like she was particularly affected by the experience. She's smiling and humming to herself, working diligently on her schoolwork with a small group of other girls. If Adrien hadn't witnessed it personally, he never would have guessed that she'd been trying to set the sky on fire less than twenty-four hours ago. But once Ladybug had purified the akuma, she had been back to normal almost immediately. She said that she couldn't even remember the experience.

Nathanaël had said the same thing. Adrien's eyes flit over to the other boy, sitting quietly in the corner of the classroom. He had been more shaken by his akumatization than Rose, but even he had recovered after just a few days. If he had any memory of trying to murder his classmate, he certainly didn't act like that.

It was probably better that they didn't remember.

"Alyaaaa," Marinette says, drawing Adrien's attention back to her. "What if Rose doesn't want you blogging about what happened to her to all of Paris?"

Alya makes grumbling sound low in her throat. "It's not like I'm identifying her by name or anything," Alya says, just a touch defensively. "I have standards, you know. Journalistic integrity. Also, need I remind you, the people of Paris—"

"—deserve to know what happens in their city," Marinette and Alya say in unison.

Alya's glance flickers up from her phone long enough for her to glower at her best friend. "Yes," she says, "and I feel like this is a great time to bring up the fact—again—that you went on a _date_ with the Evillustrator and didn't bother to tell me until _afterward!_ "

Marinette shifts uncomfortably in her seat. One hand goes up to rub nervously at her neck, a gesture that does not go unnoticed by Adrien. "I already told you, Alya," Marinette says, "Chat Noir didn't want to get anyone else involved."

"Well," Alya says, still absorbed in writing for the Ladyblog, "you're going to make it up to me today, right? There's this antique shop up along Canal Saint-Martin that I want to check out, and I could always use an extra pair of eyes."

Marinette rolls her eyes, but she's smiling fondly. "Well, combing through an antique shop isn't exactly how I wanted to spend my afternoon, but I suppose I do owe you one."

"Okay, this is cool and all," Nino interrupts, "but does anyone want to, I don't know, actually talk about the discussion questions?"

"I will!" Marinette volunteers cheerfully. She turns her chair around to face Nino, setting her notebook down on the table next to him. Adrien tries not to look, but his eyes are inevitably drawn back to the bruises on her neck. "So, Victor Hugo wrote this book because... he had really strong feelings flying buttresses?" Marinette guesses, flipping through her notes.

"He wanted to preserve our cultural history," Adrien says, drawing more from years of private tutors and homeschooling than from anything he learned in the lesson today. "He thought of architecture as a form of artistic expression, a poetry without words."

Marinette freezes in place, and her eyes flit up to him, hesitant. The way she's looking at him now is starkly different from the way she looked at Chat Noir, far removed from the easy, comfortable camaraderie that she'd had with his superhero persona. It makes something twist strangely in his chest.

"Did you know that he personally ran the campaign to save the Arènes de Lutèce from being demolished?" he adds nonchalantly, suddenly discovering that he is very eager to impress her.

"The Arènes of what?" Nino asks, flipping through his notes.

"Lutèce," Adrien repeats. "It's a little place hidden away in the 5th arrondissement. I only know because my fencing instructor sometimes performs reenactments there... have you ever been, Marinette?"

Marinette makes a small squeaking sound and lowers her head, pretending that she is carefully reading her copy of _The Hunchback_. "I—um—I—n-no," she stutters, refusing to look at him.

"I'll take you sometime," Adrien says, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he really has time to think them through. "It's really great. I think you'd like it."

Marinette flushes bright red, her mouth moving wordlessly as she tries and fails to come up with an answer for him. Nino, on his left, is giving him a knowing look, and even Alya glances up from her phone for long enough to side-eye him.

Adrien slinks back in his seat, embarrassment slowly creeping up on him. He had forgotten didn't like him—well, this version of him, anyway. Marinette might have been friendly with Chat Noir, but she can hardly even stand to be around Adrien. It was a stupid thing to suggest.

"I mean—if you want to," Adrien adds quickly, looking away.

Nino clears his throat loudly. "Right, so, this cathedral stuff," he says pointedly.

The discussion runs until the end of class, though Adrien mostly lets Nino and Marinette do all the talking. His notebook slowly fills up with jotted notes and doodles of cathedrals, so at least the lesson isn't a total waste. Still, he's relieved when the bell finally rings.

Chloé practically pounces on him the moment class lets out, all but sprinting across the classroom to his side, with Sabrina trailing after. Adrien has just gotten up from his seat when she reaches him, one arm snaking around his waist, fluttering her eyelashes up at him.

"Soo, Adrien," she says, her tone unusually honeyed, "I heard that your Chinese lesson was canceled today, and we haven't hung out in _ages_. What do you say that you and I go out together? We could get some lunch? Wait, no, I have a better idea—let's skip lunch and just get dessert instead. Ice cream, maybe?"

"Uh, okay, sure," he says. Chloé may be self-absorbed, but she knows him well—Adrien can rarely resist his sweet tooth. "You want to come too, Sabrina?"

Sabrina blinks a few times, almost surprised that Adrien has even bothered to address her. Instead of answering, she looks over hesitantly at Chloé.

"No, Sabrina's busy tonight," Chloé says, examining her manicure. Sabrina takes this as a cue and scampers away without so much as a word.

"How about you, Nino?" Adrien asks hopefully.

Nino, who had already gotten up to leave, glances back at him, looking skeptical. "Nah, man," he says, looking at Chloé as he does. "I've, uh, got homework."

Nino shuffles out of the room, and Chloé smiles beatifically up at Adrien. "Looks like it's just you and me!" she says, and all but drags him away.

* * *

Adrien and Chloé both have drivers, of course, who would have gladly—or, at least, unquestioningly—taken them to any ice cream shop in all of Paris. But then they would have faithfully reported everything to Adrien's father, including Adrien's decision to have ice cream for lunch, and that was bound to end in a lecture and a trip to the nutritionist, so Chloé and Adrien sneak away and take the metro instead. They end up at an overpriced, tourist-trap of an ice cream shop just a few blocks away from the Eiffel Tower, where the flavors all have unpronounceable names and the menu is written in four languages.

During the summer, the shop is usually so busy that it's difficult to find standing room, much less an open table. In late November, though, as autumn slowly gives way to winter, it's practically deserted. Adrien and Chloé slide into a booth near the front window, with a view out into the nearby Champ de Mars.

Chloé mostly doesn't eat her ice cream, opting instead to pick out the cherries that have been swirled in with the vanilla, and leaving the rest to melt. She stirs her spoon through the half-full bowl, chattering endlessly, while Adrien quietly devours his triple chocolate cone.

"Ugh, and did you see that blouse Marinette was wearing today? _Damask_. It looked like she was wearing a throw pillow."

"I don't know," Adrien says. "I thought it looked nice."

Chloé rolls her eyes. "That's because you don't know the first thing about fashion." She stops pushing her spoon around her mostly-melted ice cream and uses it to gesture instead at Adrien. He's wearing a variation on the same thing he wears everyday: blue jeans, a plain tee-shirt, and an open button-up on top of it. Despite his father's efforts, Adrien is clueless when it comes to clothes. "Believe me, honey, damask belongs on _furniture_ , not people."

"If you say so."

"And Mylène was absent again today," Chloé continues, apparently armed with a piece of gossip about every last one of their classmates. "I don't think there's been a week in the whole school year where she didn't miss at least one day. I bet it's because of her parents' divorce. I was eavesdropping on Ivan last week, apparently there's some kind of custody disagreement."

Adrien pauses a moment, squinting at Chloé. "I didn't know you cared," he says, puzzled.

Chloé only rolls her eyes. "Of course I care, Adrien," she says. "Just because I don't _like_ Mylène doesn't mean I don't _care_."

Now Adrien is even more confused. "Doesn't... it?"

"Please," Chloé says disdainfully. "It's just important to stay in the know. What's that saying? Power is knowledge?"

"Knowledge is power."

"Right, that one." Chloé finally seems to abandon her ice cream, pushing the dish aside. "Anyway, have you heard the news about D'Argencourt?"

Adrien frowns. "My fencing instructor? Why is there news about him?"

Chloé stares at him, disbelieving. "You know he's running for mayor against my dad, right?"

Adrien takes a moment to mentally review every conversation he's had with Chloé or D'Argencourt over the past month. "No...?"

"Wow," Chloé says, shaking her head. "Well, anyway. He's running for mayor against my dad, and he's trying to, I don't know, curry favor or something with the proletariat. Whatever. The point is, he's coming down hard on that whole Papillon thing. He made some speech about it the other night, a lot of grandiose promises about he would 'force Papillon out of hiding' and 'not rely on two children to deal with the problem.' Not that he had any real suggestions about _how_ he planned on doing any of that, of course."

"I see," Adrien says.

"Yeah, and he's trying to scare people by, like, alluding to the Trocadéro Disaster, even though this Papillon guy is clearly nothing like _—_ oh."

The look on Adrien's face stops Chloé dead in her tracks. He tries to force a small smile, but he has never been a very convincing liar.

"Sorry," she says quickly. She even manages to look slightly guilty. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"It's fine," Adrien says, even though it isn't. "It's been seven years. I can't expect people to tiptoe around it forever."

Chloé presses her lips together, deliberating for a moment. "Still no word on what happened to your mother?" she asks hesitantly.

Adrien shakes his head. "If she's still alive, then she really doesn't want to be found," he says.

 _And I can understand why_ , he adds in his head, but doesn't dare say out loud.

Chloé is silent for a while. She has never been good at empathizing with others, and so she sits and awkwardly drums her fingers of the table, letting Adrien quietly sulk.

"Oh dear," she eventually says, interrupting Adrien's thoughts. For a moment, Adrien thinks that she might have more to say about his mother. But her eyes have turned away from Adrien and towards the window.

"What is it?"

"Probably nothing," she says. "But there's some smoke out behind the Eiffel. You see it?"

Adrien cranes his head to look where she's pointing. An ominous plume of dark black smoke rises up from the area just north of the tower.

It could mean nothing. Or...

The ground rumbles slightly. Adrien can hear screaming in the distance.

"Well, I think that's our cue to leave," Chloé says brusquely. "D'Argencourt is right about one thing, you know—this whole _akuma_ business has gotten completely out of hand!"

* * *

Marinette doesn't pay that much attention to the first person that tears screaming down the quay, indiscriminately shoving people aside as he runs at top speed through the middle of a bustling crowd. The man elbows past her, yelling in frantic German, and vanishes just as quickly as he appeared. Marinette and Alya share a look, then shrug. _Tourists_.

The two girls walk shoulder to shoulder, pushing their way through the crowds of locals and foreigners alike that are gathered at the side of the canal, speaking loudly to one another to be heard over everyone else.

"Well, that was a dead end," Alya says, practically shouting over noise of the crowds. "I don't think there was a drop of magic in that entire shop."

"What else did you expect?" Marinette says. "It was an antique shop, not a magicorium!"

Alya grumbles under her breath and tosses her hair back over one shoulder. "Ladybug and Chat Noir had to get those Miraculouses from _somewhere_ ," she says, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her overcoat. "An antique shop makes as much sense as anything else. I mean, where else do you really think they could have come from?"

Marinette probably shouldn't, but she reaches up with one hand to fiddle with one of her earrings. Alya has never commented on them before, even though she's written lengthy blog posts about every known detail of Ladybug's earrings. Marinette suspects that there is some kind of magic that shields her Miraculous from being noticed, the same way that no one is able to recognize her when she's transformed, not even her closest friends and family.

"Maybe they just appeared one day," Marinette suggests, wondering how much she can safely say to Alya. "Maybe they didn't get them from anywhere."

Alya scoffs. "Then where were they before that? The nether?"

"Maybe," Marinette says. Weirder things have happened.

"Well, at least you got something out of it," Alya says, shaking her head. "Though I really don't understand why you spent forty euros on that little thing."

Marinette reaches into her purse, winking at Tikki as she does so, and pulls out the tiny little gem she purchased at the antique shop. It's a small cat's eye chrysoberyl, rough and green and unpolished, and as tiny as her pinky fingernail. She holds it up towards the sky, smiling at the way it glints in the light.

"They're lucky," Marinette says plainly. Alya rolls her eyes.

"I love you, girl, but you live in a world with _real_ magic, you know that, right? Why are you wasting your time with silly superstitions?"

Marinette smiles dreamily at her newest lucky charm, certain deep in her soul that _this_ is going to be the one to turn her luck around. "Maybe it is magic," she says, too softly for Alya to hear over the crowds.

(Part of the trouble with magic, you know, is that it's fueled by belief. The line where something stops being _superstition_ and starts being _real_ _magic_ is vague and ill-defined, as no fewer than six thousand academic research papers on the subject will confirm.)

As she is staring at her gemstone, admiring the way it catches the sunlight, Marinette has the misfortune to accidentally collide with another girl walking along the quay. Marinette recovers her balance without falling, and the other girl does too, but the tiny cat's eye gem slips out of her fingers and falls to the ground.

She watches it strike the pavement in what almost seems to be slow motion. The gem bounces once, twice, and then, for just the briefest moment, seems to sit still upon the pavement.

Then it starts to roll.

"Oh no," Marinette breathes out, eyes widening. She shoves forward, trying to push through the crowds without being rude, calling out _excuse me_ and _pardon me_ and _so sorry_ as she elbows her way past the throng of people surrounding her, desperately following the rolling gemstone.

She does not catch up with it in time. Marinette reaches out hopelessly as it rolls right over the edge of the quay and into the canal, disappearing beneath the murky waters with a sad little _plop!_

Alya pats Marinette's shoulder sympathetically. "Bad luck," she says.

"Maybe I could fish it out of the canal," Marinette says, nibbling on one fingernail. "It's not that deep here, is it? One meter, maybe two?"

"It might not be that deep, but they haven't drained the canal in what, ten years?" Alya says. She shakes her head. "You'd have a hard enough time finding something that small in a crystal-clear, chlorinated swimming pool. There's no way you're going to find it in a dirty canal filled with garbage."

"You're probably right," Marinette says, sighing.

She is still mourning the loss of her forty euros when a shriek rings out over the streets. She and Alya both turn to look, but can see nothing over the crowds that surround them.

"Another tourist, maybe," Alya suggests, but her eyes have narrowed.

There is a shift in the crowd. Marinette draws slightly closer to Alya and goes up on her toes, trying to peer out over the heads around her. What once had been a mostly aimless throng of people is slowly turning into a tide, the bodies around them all being pushed slightly backwards.

More screaming follows. Marinette reaches for her purse, a gnawing worry growing in the pit of her stomach. The push of the crowds becomes more forceful.

She sees a tall figure land in a crouch on a distant rooftop, his eyes roving over the streets. He is pale as death and dressed in striped white-and-black, the very image of a stereotypical French mime. He holds one hand out slightly in front of him, as if he were holding a ball, tossing it up and catching it lightly.

He turns slowly towards the quay, face impassive. For a moment, Marinette almost thinks that he holds her gaze.

He lobs the mimed ball down towards the ground below. An explosion rattles the quay, and the panicked cries of the crowd grow shriller yet.

 _Akuma_.

* * *

Ladybug does not have any formal martial arts training.

In every battle she's fought so far, this hasn't really mattered. Chat Noir, whoever he might be beneath that mask, clearly _has_ been trained in both unarmed combat and fencing—(though not, Ladybug notes wryly, staff fighting)—and between his expertise and her quick wits, her relative lack of experience has never become an issue.

The fifteen minutes that Ladybug spends fighting against the Mime alone is enough to convince her that it's time to take up kickboxing, or something.

She doesn't know who Papillon has akumatized this time, but he is certainly no amateur. The Mime produces a seemingly endless stock of weapons—knives, darts, bombs—that are all silent and invisible and that, impossibly, _he_ _knows how to use_. All Ladybug is a yoyo she only half understands how to use for combat.

When Chat Noir does finally appear, it's not a moment too late. He flies down from a nearby rooftop, landing nimbly by her side, and uses his staff to block a mimed dagger just seconds before it would have landed in Ladybug's abdomen. The Mime takes a few steps backward, hefting the weight of the invisible dagger experimentally in his hands.

"That was a close shave, My Lady," Chat says, winking.

"No time for that!" Ladybug says. She grabs Chat Noir by the wrist and abruptly yanks him down, just barely avoiding a hail of gunfire as the Mime switches from knife to machine gun. Bullets whiz over their heads and lodge themselves in the brick walls behind them, prompting screams from the scattered handful of civilians that are still in the area.

"I see what you mean," Chat Noir says. He rolls back up onto his feet lightly, sizing the Mime up. The Mime, in turn, hesitates a moment, regarding Chat quietly.

Normally, this is the part where the villain demands that they hand over their Miraculouses, _or else_.

But the Mime still does not speak. He tilts his head to one side, cracking his neck, watching the two heroes before him with cold, calculating eyes.

He glances back over his shoulder. Then he turns back to face Ladybug and Chat Noir, smirking.

The Mime reaches up, tips his hat slightly, then leaps up into the sky, running across rooftops away from them. Ladybug and Chat Noir both rush after him, but he has already vanished into the streets below.

Chat Noir's jaw tenses as he scans the grid of streets and alleyways stretching out beneath them. "Is it like the Evillustrator?" he wonders out loud. "More interested with personal revenge than serving Papillon?"

Ladybug hesitates for a moment. "I don't know," she says distantly, brow furrowing as her eyes trace the horizon in the general direction that the Mime had been traveling. There's not much to be seen—Paris prides itself on its low skyline, with the exception of the Eiffel Tower, standing like a sentinel over the city. She's drawing a mental map in her mind, trying to think of where the Mime could possibly be going, when the obvious answer comes to her.

 _Oh no,_ Ladybug thinks, eyes widening. _He wouldn't_.

* * *

He would.

The Ladyblogger herself will later say that it was _good luck_ that the Eiffel Tower happened to be empty on that ill-fated Wednesday afternoon. Her report on the event will later be followed up by a six-page essay on the various symbolisms and mythologies surrounding ladybugs in European and North African cultures, and a speculation on just how far Ladybug's powers of good fortune can stretch.

The truth is more mundane. Following the Guitar Villain incident of November 4th, the tower's operators made the decision to close the Eiffel indefinitely, citing safety concerns. It was a decision met with large outcry by tourists and relative silence by the local population. It ended up saving thousands of lives.

* * *

By the time Ladybug and Chat Noir reach the Champ de Mars, chaos has already broken out. By now, everyone in Paris can recognize an akumatized person when they see one, and _almost_ everyone is fleeing the park at top speed. Only a few daredevils linger behind—though most of them are still at a considerable distance from the action.

The Mime walks along the length of the Champ de Mars slowly, crossing Avenue Eiffel at an amble, completely unperturbed by the chaos he is causing around. Ladybug and Chat Noir rush after him, sprinting at top speeds, but they not fast.

The Mime runs his thumb along an invisible edge, and when he draws his hand back there is a thin line of blood on his finger. He hefts a weight in his other hand, as if he were carrying a very large, very heavy sword, and he swings it at the tower.

It slices through the metal as easily as if it were made out of butter.

The tower begins to tilt.

* * *

What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

That, of course, is a rhetorical question. The real world does not have time for those kind of absolutes. There is nothing unstoppable or immovable in Paris.

What we have here are two almost-equal forces that are nowhere near unstoppable:

On the one side, there is gravity, attempting to accelerate 10,000 tons of wrought iron towards the ground at the ever-constant rate of 9.8 meters per second squared.

On the other side, there is Ladybug, the embodiment of good luck and creation and healing and all the things that go along with it. Ladybug is the anti-entropy, the undoer of destruction, and she is currently being fueled by three chocolate chip cookies and half a slice of carrot cake.

The moment that the tower begins to fall, Ladybug thrusts her hands up to the sky, bellowing _M_ _IRACULOUS CURE_ _!_ at the top of her lungs. For the briefest fraction of a second, she does successfully halt the destruction in its tracks. The Eiffel Tower freezes in the middle of its disastrous fall and hovers there, held up tenuously by Ladybug's magic.

But energy cannot be created or destroyed. Ladybug's magic may be potent, but it is hardly all-powerful. In the end, there was only one real possible outcome.

Gravity wins. The tower continues its slow, inevitable fall, tilting down over the Champ de Mars—and them.

Ladybug whirls around to face Chat Noir with huge, horror-struck eyes. She doesn't say anything to him, but then she doesn't need to. He's at her side in an instant, one arm wrapped securely around her waist. Ladybug flings out her yoyo to a far-distant tree and hauls them both out of the path of the falling tower, just barely escaping death by flattening.

They feel more than hear the impact of the tower behind them. The whole ground trembles, and Ladybug stumbles to her knees. Her cure might not have been successful, but it used up all her energy and then some.

"You okay?" Chat asks.

Ladybug doesn't answer him right away. She lifts up her head just enough to survey the damage from the fallen tower. Panicking crowds hover at the edge of the Champ de Mars, hushed murmurs steadily growing into a horrified roar as they begin to comprehend the magnitude of destruction.

Her eyes scan their surroundings, searching for the Mime, but he seems to have vanished. Whatever he hoped to accomplish here, he apparently didn't wait around to see the results of it.

Ladybug's eyes settle now on the destroyed monument that stretches along half the length of the Champ de Mars. The toppled Eiffel Tower lays in ruins, a pile of broken and twisted metal where once the grandest monument in all of France stood.

" _Fuck_ ," Ladybug says.


	6. shadowed and veiled

When Adrien was a child, he'd gotten dressed up every single Sunday and walked hand-in-hand with his mother to the tiny church on Rue Saint Denis, a cozy little brick building that went largely unnoticed in the shadow of the much grander Notre Dame Cathedral. Adrien's mother, a devout Catholic, had brought him with her to Sunday mass each and every week until he was seven and a half years old, and afterwards they would walk home together and she would ruffle his hair and quiz him about the sermon.

Gabriel Agreste, quite unlike his wife, had no time for _childish super_ _stition_ , and so Mme Agreste's disappearance had also spelled the end of young Adrien's religious experience.

Adrien hasn't set foot in a church in years. He only has vague memories about Catholicism, and his memories about doctrine are even fuzzier. Still, he's pretty sure that using a confessional to hide secrets instead of admitting them is... sacrilegious, or something.

He sits on one side of the darkened booth, absently petting Plagg's head with his thumb. Plagg is unusually quiet, nibbling on a wedge of Camembert with considerably less gusto than usual. On the other side of the booth, he can just barely make out the outline of a detransformed Ladybug through the latticed wooden screen. She sitting with her head tilted back, leaning wearily against the wall.

He can't see her expression, but he can hear the anger in her voice well enough.

"What kind of sick game is Papillon playing at?" she growls. Her voice sounds different when she isn't transformed—higher-pitched, scratchier. She talks faster, too. Her words come out as a rapid jumble, all spoken in the same breath.

Adrien shakes his head before he remembers that she probably can't see him. "I don't know," he says out loud.

"It doesn't make any sense!" Ladybug continues. She sounds almost frantic now. "Why—why do that, and then just leave? What does he think that's going to accomplish?"

"I don't know," Adrien says again.

He really doesn't know.

The more Adrien thinks about it, the less he thinks he understands. Papillon wants their Miraculouses, so he sends out his akuma in the hopes that one of his manufactured villains will be powerful enough to defeat them. Only that doesn't work. It's never worked. Ladybug and Chat Noir are more powerful than anything Papillon can create, and so... his new strategy is to instill terror in the hearts of the Parisian people?

The Mime hadn't even stuck around to see the aftermath. He'd vanished before the Eiffel Tower had even finished toppling over, and even after hours of searching, Chat and Ladybug hadn't been able to find the akumatized man. They'd scoured the city until their transformations finally ran out, and now they have no clues, no leads to follow... just a ruined Eiffel Tower and nothing to show for it.

"I don't know if I can fix it," Ladybug says quietly, like she'd been reading his mind. "The Eiffel... it's too much."

"You don't have to do it all at once," Adrien says gently. "One piece at a time."

Ladybug breathes out slowly. "Tikki?"

Another voice joins the conversation, this one clear and serene. "It could work," it says. "Over several days, we could rebuild the tower starting from the bottom. We'd need to plan carefully, though, so that we won't be too weak to fight afterwards."

Ladybug huffs. "Yeah, I bet Papillon would love that."

"We'll still have to deal with the Mime," Adrien says uncertainly. "We don't know where he is, or what he's going to to next. After what happened today..."

He lets his voice trail off, too cowardly to finish the sentiment.

"For the moment, at least, I don't think you need to worry about him," Ladybug's kwami answers. "Papillon is bound by the same rules as you are. Magic costs energy, and what he did at the Eiffel Tower could not have been easy. Nooroo will need time to recharge."

"Nooroo?" Adrien and Ladybug ask in unison.

"Papillon's kwami," Tikki explains. "The spirit of change. Not as powerful as we are, but certainly nothing to be scoffed at."

Ladybug snorts. "You call that _less_ powerful?"

"It's true," Plagg drawls, speaking for the first time. Through the confessional screen, Adrien can see Ladybug stiffen slightly. "That little display was nothing to compared to the disasters I've caused." Plagg holds up one paw, and begins counting them out. "Tenochtitlan, Djenné, Alamut..."

"No need to sound so proud about it," Tikki interrupts flatly.

Plagg lets out a breathy laugh. "Destruction is my nature," he says. He floats up from his perch on Adrien's knee to squint through the slats in the screen. "It doesn't normally bother you, Tikki. Don't tell me this about that dreadful Seljuq king again!"

"Nizam was a wonderful wielder," Tikki says coldly, "and he was a vizier, not a king."

Plagg rolls his eyes and zooms away from the window, apparently discovering a renewed interest in his Camembert. "He was a tyrant," Plagg says, "and you should get over it. I've never held it against you when _my_ wielders—"

"Oh really, Plagg!" Tikki snaps. "I don't think the children need to listen to us have this argument again."

"Why not? They didn't get to hear it the first five hundred and seven times." Plagg looks up at Adrien with an impish expression. "You'll love it, kid. Tikki's wielders are usually hopeless goody-goods, but _this_ guy—"

"Tikki's right," Ladybug says, cutting him off. "We don't have time for this right now. Papillon might need to recharge like us, but the Mime is still out there, and we need to stop him before someone gets seriously hurt."

Adrien bites down on the inside of his cheek. "But how? We don't even know anything about him."

There is a moment of silence. "I might have an idea," Ladybug says slowly.

* * *

Alya loses track of Marinette pretty much immediately after the akuma attack begins.

She doesn't think much of it at first—Alya's first instinct is always to get closer to the action, whereas Marinette tends to shy away from it—and so she just sort of assumes that Marinette has escaped to safety.

The first unanswered phone call doesn't worry her much either. It goes straight to voicemail without ringing and Alya figures that it's just because the akuma attack is interfering with cell service. The second and third unanswered calls are more concerning, but Alya remains calm. This is _Marinette_ , after all. Alya loves her dearly, but Marinette just wouldn't be Marinette if she wasn't flaking all the time. She shoots off a text to her BFF and makes her way to the Champ de Mars, armed with a tiny yellow notepad and a half-charged smartphone.

The police have already erected a barricade around the fallen Eiffel Tower by the time Alya gets there, and a swarm of reporters with fancy equipment and fancier hair are already clamoring at the edges of it, dozens of newscasts all running simultaneously. The professional news teams make an impressive barricade all on their own, effectively blocking Alya from getting a good view on the damage. She wonders if she should maybe investigate the possibility of getting herself some better recording equipment—maybe something with a bit more battery life than her second-hand Android, trusty though it may be—and heads into the crowds, a girl on a mission.

She emerges victorious two hours later with five eyewitness accounts, a preliminary damage report, and a two-minute video recording of the police chief's impromptu press conference. While riding an overcrowded bus back to the 21st arrondissement and compiling her notes, she calls Marinette a fourth time—still no answer.

This time she leaves a message. "Hey Marinette, it's Alya," she says into the static. "I know they said that there were no known fatalities, but you're kind of freaking me out here. Call me back when you get a chance."

Alya is swarmed by her siblings the moment she gets home, all of them clamoring for news about the latest akuma attack. She fends them off playfully, shooing off the older ones and dislodging the youngest, who are trying to cling to her legs.

"You can read it on the blog later, with everyone else," Alya tells them with mock sterness, and heads up towards her bedroom. Luckily, her siblings return to their game of pretend-superheroes without much more of a fight, and Alya manages to escape unscathed into the stairway.

She takes the steps up to her room three at a time and makes one more attempt at calling Marinette. Straight to voicemail. Alya grimaces and shoves her phone back into her pocket. It's not that she's _really_ that worried about Marinette—how much trouble could that girl possibly have gotten into?—but when your best friend suddenly becomes unreachable after an akuma attack, well, it's hard not to wonder.

Alya sighs heavily and shoulders the door to her room open, fumbling in the dark for the lightswitch. Blinking against the sudden brightness, she slides her bag off of her shoulder and she freezes halfway in the motion of throwing it onto her bed. Her mouth drops open.

Ladybug— _the_ Ladybug!—is sitting nervously on the edge of her bed, arms crossed over her chest, drumming her fingers against her bicep. Chat Noir is beside her, sitting against the windowsill and leaning half out of Alya's bedroom window, looking just as tense.

Alya blinks a few more times, wondering if her eyes are playing tricks on her. Neither Ladybug nor Chat Noir make any motion to move. Or to speak, for that matter. They're just sitting there, two spandex-clad superheroes loitering around her bedroom as if it were perfectly normal.

A small part of Alya is on the verge of a fangirlish breakdown. A larger part of Alya senses that there's a story here, and so she plays it cool. She's in full reporter mode now. There will be time to freak out later.

"Hello," Alya says carefully.

"Hello!" Chat Noir responds pleasantly. Ladybug only grimaces.

"So, do you two do this often?" Alya asks, gently setting her bag down near the foot of her nightstand. "Just break into people's houses and wait in their bedrooms until they come home?"

"Yes," Ladybug says dryly. Chat Noir flushes slightly. Alya cocks one eyebrow at this and files this fact away for later consideration.

"We're sorry to intrude," Ladybug continues, "but this is an emergency, and we don't have any other good way to contact you."

Alya nods solemnly. "Of course. What can I do for you?"

Ladybug hesitates a moment, biting down on her bottom lip. She and Chat exchange a nervous look. "We need information," she says slowly, "about the man who attacked the Eiffel Tower today. I thought that if there was anyone who would know..."

Alya's face brightens. _Take that, mainstream media!_ _s_ he thinks victoriously.

"Well, you've come to the right place," Alya says casually, trying and failing to suppress a grin. She sits down at her desk and boots up her desktop computer, and just a few minutes later she has all her notes pulled up on the monitor. Ladybug and Chat Noir hover behind her, crouched down and trying to read the screen over her shoulder.

"Fred Haprèle, thirty-nine, ex-actor who is currently unemployed," Alya rattles off. "He and his wife recently divorced. Their daughter, Mylène, is living with her mother, but he owes thousands of euros in child support. Mom decided that he shouldn't be allowed to see their daughter until he pays up, but Mylène has been sneaking off to see him anyway. Needless to say, that ended badly. I have two witnesses who say that they saw him transform in the 10th arrondissement, though they couldn't agree about which street he was on."

Ladybug and Chat Noir exchange another look. "Mylène Haprèle," Ladybug says slowly. "She's a student at your school, isn't she?"

"Correct," Alya confirms. "Actually, since you mentioned that—" She taps away at her keyboard, closing one window and opening several more. One of them is a map, marked with color-coded arrows, which she enlarges to fill the whole screen.

"These are the locations of every akuma attack to date," Alya explains. Ladybug nods, eyes tracing over the familiar paths drawn in over a satellite map of Paris. "Notice anything suspicious?"

"They're concentrated around the 21st arrondissement," Chat Noir breathes out. He leans in even closer to the screen, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Not just that," Alya says, zooming in. "They're centered around the Place du Châtelet. My school—Françoise Dupont—is less than a block away. Thirteen students from the school have been akumatized so far."

"Thirteen?" Ladybug asks, voice low. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Alya says. "It's too many to be a coincidence."

Ladybug doesn't say anything to that. She just presses her lips together into a thin line. Chat Noir watches her closely and is just as silent.

"Anyway," Alya says, turning back to her screen. "I think that Papillon must be working from somewhere in this area." She points to a small shaded section of the map, stretching from the Notre Dame Cathedral to the Théâtre du Châtelet, right over the heart of the 21st arrondissement. "It's the only explanation I can think of."

Ladybug and Chat Noir have no answer to that either. Alya glances back over her shoulder to look at them. Both are deep in thought, their expressions unreadable.

"Thank you for your help, Alya," Ladybug says eventually. She steps away and brushes back her bangs with one hand. "This is very useful information. But I don't think that you need to panic just yet. Papillon could still be anywhere."

Her words are spoken casually, accompanied by a sincere smile, but she runs her fingers nervously over her yoyo as she says them. She gives Chat Noir only the briefest glance, but Alya is nothing if not observant. She still catches the meaning behind their unspoken exchange.

 _Not here_.

* * *

Chat Noir waits until they're a full block away before he says anything.

"You think Alya's wrong, don't you?" he asks.

Ladybug keeps her back to him, fixing her eyes on the city streets below them instead. The streetlights twinkle back at her, pinpricks of yellow in the darkness. Normally crowded city streets are sparsely populated tonight, and an unusual quiet has fallen over the city. It's like all of Paris is holding its breath, waiting to see what will happen next.

"I think it's a possibility," she says curtly. She doesn't say anything else.

Chat Noir bites down on the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. Ladybug still isn't looking at him, but if the tension in her shoulders is anything to go by, she's worrying too.

"I can think of another reason why the attacks might be concentrated in this area," he says quietly.

"Don't say it."

"You're thinking it too."

"We agreed," Ladybug says, but she doesn't sound angry. Just weary. "It's safest if we keep our identities a secret—even from each other. _Especially_ from each other."

"I know," Chat says. "But what if..."

Ladybug tilts her face slightly upward. "What if," she repeats. She's trying to sound confident, but her voice cracks tellingly. "What if the attacks are because of _us_?"

"I live in the 21st arrondissement," Chat says quietly. "I won't tell you exactly where, but..."

"Me too," Ladybug confirms. "So Papillon knows where we are. He can... track us, or our Miraculouses, or something."

It's a slightly terrifying thought. But it seems more plausible than Alya's theory. What's more likely—that Papillon lives on the same block as Chat Noir, or that he has some kind of magic that lets him sense their Miraculouses?

"Everyone around us is in danger," Ladybug continues softly. "Our friends, our families..."

"They were already in danger, LB," Chat says.

"This is different. This is _personal_."

"It was always personal." Chat lifts up his right hand slightly. The ring on his finger is plain-looking, a simple black band with little ornamentation. If he hadn't known better, he never would have thought it contained enough destructive magic to level half of Paris. "Papillon's never made it a secret that he's after us, specifically."

Ladybug grits her teeth together. " _Us_ meaning Ladybug and Chat Noir, not our alter-egos!"

"We _are_ our alter-egos."

"Yeah, well he isn't supposed to know that!" Ladybug snaps. But just as quickly as her anger came over her, it fades. She turns away from him again, shaking her head slightly. "Sorry," she mumbles. "I'm just... I'll ask Tikki about it later. Right now we should worry about the Mime."

Chat Noir nods. "We know who he is now. So what next?"

"Papillon doesn't have complete control over his villains." Ladybug sets one hand on her hip and surveys the streets beneath her thoughtfully. "The Evillustrator proved that they're not mindless puppets. So deep down, the Mime is still just M. Haprèle."

"Alright. But how does that help us?"

"This is about his daughter, isn't it? He's going to want to see her again. We'll set up patrol routes near her school. Her house, too. We'll have to set up some kind of schedule, or maybe... "

Ladybug trails off. She sighs heavily, and for the first time Chat notices the dark circles under her eyes.

"First thing, let's scope out the areas we'll be patrolling," Ladybug says wearily. She flings out her yoyo to a building across the street and throws herself into the sky without waiting for an answer.

Chat Noir, as always, follows her lead.

* * *

After forty-five minutes of recon, Ladybug is beyond exhausted, and Chat Noir is hardly any better. So she sends him home and staggers back to her family's bakery. They both need to get whatever rest they can before the inevitable rematch with the Mime.

She lands in the park near her home and ducks under an archway to detransform. She double checks that the park is deserted before she lets her transformation drop. Ladybug's magic melts away, leaving behind a noticeably weaker Marinette. She staggers slightly, feeling a wave of exhaustion hit her the moment Tikki flies out of her earrings.

The kwami is silent, but nuzzles softly against her cheek. "What a day," Marinette murmurs, cracking open her purse for Tikki to hide in.

She climbs sluggishly up to her family's apartment above the bakery, fumbling clumsily with her keys before she finally manages to get the door unlocked. It seems to take all her energy just to twist the handle.

Inside, her parents are sitting huddled together on the couch, deep in conversation, and they both jump back at the sound of the door. Marinette freezes in the doorway, suddenly self-conscious, as both her parents leap up off of the couch with twin looks of shock and relief.

Her mother speaks first. "Marinette!" she says, rushing over to her daughter and pulling her into a tight hug. "We were so worried."

A moment later, her father joins them, wrapping both of them into his arms. "We tried to call you," he says, "but your phone wasn't ringing."

 _Oh_ , Marinette thinks. Cell phone reception clearly isn't that great in whatever pocket dimension her belongings are spirited off to while she's transformed.

"I'm sorry," Marinette says numbly. "I forgot to charge my phone."

"Where _were_ you?" Mme Cheng asks, drawing back slightly. There's no accusation in her tone, only fear. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"I—um—no," Marinette stutters awkwardly. She pulls back from her parents and brushes back her bangs, stalling for a moment as she tries to come up with a plausible story. "I was with Alya, at Canal Saint-Martin, when the akuma..." Both her parents suck in nervous breaths. "We got separated, and I was looking for her. But we're both fine. I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you would be worried..."

Her words trail off. A faint flush of red creeps up on her cheeks.

"It's fine, _ma petite_ ," M. Dupain says, clapping her shoulder gently. "We're just glad that you're safe."

"I'll remember to call you next time," Marinette promises. The lie feels like lead on her tongue, but her parents smile and swallow it whole. "I'm going to head to bed now, if that's okay," Marinette continues, moving towards the stairs. "It's... been a long day."

"Of course," her mother says. She sounds so gentle and understanding when she says it, and somehow that's what makes Marinette feel the guiltiest of all.

She drags herself up to her bedroom but finds that she's too tired to climb all the way up to her lofted bed. Instead she takes few staggering steps and collapses face-first onto her chaise. An equally exhausted Tikki climbs out of her purse and lands beside her, sighing softly.

Marinette allows herself a minute to just rest. A few moments to regain her composure.

Then it's back to Ladybug business. Then she rolls over onto her side and turns her head to look at her kwami.

"So, is it true, Tikki?" Marinette asks softly. "Does Papillon know where we are?"

Tikki is silent for a moment. Her big blue eyes grow distant as she ponders the question. "We kwami are all connected to one another," she begins carefully. "Some of us more closely than others. You have noticed by now that you can sense Chat Noir, sometimes even when you are not transformed."

Marinette bites down on her lip. "Yeah," she says slowly. "But only a little bit. It's not like—like I could _track_ him, or anything."

"No. But with time, you will grow more sensitive to the energy. You may even begin to sense the other Miraculous users in this area."

"So, that's what Papillon can do?"

Tikki pauses, pressing her mouth into a thin line. "I can only assume," she eventually says.

"I see," Marinette says. She grimaces, unpleasant thoughts all competing for attention at the forefront of her mind.

"So, Tikki, "she says distantly. "What's our next step?"

Tikki looks contemplative. "What do you think we should do, Marinette?" she asks, as sagely as ever.

Well. That's just the problem, isn't it?

* * *

As far as showy displays of villainy go, it's hard to beat toppling the Eiffel Tower.

Of course, that's not for lack of trying on the Mime's part. The Panthéon, the Luxor Obelisk, the Arc de Triomphe—the Mime strikes them all, one by one, and Paris's monuments come tumbling down. He sets the Louvre ablaze, and by the time Ladybug stops the flames, a whole wing of the museum is already a charred wreck.

Would-be tourists cancel their reservations in droves. The president declares a state of emergency. Some of Paris's wealthiest citizens abruptly make plans to winter in the south of France. Less-moneyed families quietly start searching for work in other cities.

The Dupain-Chengs don't say anything about leaving Paris—at least, not in front of Marinette.

She can hear their whispers, though, when they think she's asleep. _What if the bakery is destroyed?_ and _Will_ _we_ _be able to sell enough?_ and _Is it safe for Marinette?_

They make half-hearted contingency plans. _We could close the bakery for a season._ _We c_ _ould_ _s_ _end Marinette to_ _stay_ _with_ _my sister in Orléans._

She wonders if she should tell them the truth.

(Never for very long, though. She might hate lying to her parents, but she'd do far worse things if it meant keeping her family safe.)

Despite Ladybug's theory, the Mime doesn't make any attempt to approach his daughter. Ladybug and Chat Noir patrol every night that they can, but it doesn't make any difference—the Mime strikes at random, at all hours of the day, with no apparent motive other than large-scale destruction.

After the Mime destroys the Fontaine du Palmier for the third time and then promptly vanishes into the night, Ladybug is about ready to tear her hair out. If Papillon's newest strategy is just to wage a grueling war of attrition until she and Chat Noir give up out of pure exhaustion, then it's _working_.

Chat Noir, noticing her frustration, thankfully refrains from making the same tired _go with the flow_ pun about the shattered fountain, and instead follows Ladybug in blessed silence as she scales up the buttresses on the east side of the Notre Dame. Near the top she flings her yoyo out to an overhanging gargoyle and swings herself up onto a high, narrow balcony. Once there, she settles down in a nook between two windows, her back pressed against the wall, and hugs her knees to her chest.

Chat sits down beside her. "Hey," he says. "It's going to be okay. We'll get him eventually, you'll see."

"No we won't," Ladybug says. She buries her face in her arms. "We're going to keep fighting him forever and then he's going to wreck all of Paris and everyone's going to be homeless and even the Ladyblog will turn against us and—"

"Whoa," Chat Noir says. "Don't get too far ahead of yourself."

"—and they'll come for us with torches and pitchforks," Ladybug continues, talking over him, "and we'll have to run away to China."

Chat Noir snorts. "Why China?"

Ladybug lifts her head slightly. "I have family in China," she says. Her lower lip juts out in a pout. "I don't speak any Chinese, though," she says miserably.

"Well it just so happens that I'm fluent in Chinese," Chat Noir says, winking. "But I think I would rather run away to the Caribbean."

"I don't speak Spanish either," Ladybug says glumly.

"We'll go to Anguilla," Chat says. "How's your English?"

"Not good."

"Well, I'll translate for you. We can go scuba diving and eat callaloo. Take some long walks on beaches."

Despite herself, Ladybug smiles. "This is beginning to sound suspiciously romantic," she says.

"It's not romantic unless you want it to be, Bugaboo," he says. "So what do you say? Settle down in a little beachfront cottage and leave Paris to fend for itself?"

Ladybug sighs. She leans forward to rest her head against his shoulder. Chat Noir grows reaches around her and snakes one arm around her waist, tugging her closer. "You know we can't," she says wistfully.

"I guess we'll just have to keep fighting then," Chat Noir says with mock anguish. "Tragic."

Ladybug closes her eyes for a moment. The autumn chill is beginning to bite, the cold seeping into her bones, but she lingers a moment longer. There's a strong breeze tonight, and it carries with it the faint musky scent of the Seine river below. The wind rattles the windows of the Notre Dame as it blows through, and it sounds so loud compared to the frightfully quiet city sprawling below. It's almost enough to send her into another spiral of panic, but Chat Noir's presence beside her keeps her grounded.

Eventually, Ladybug climbs back up to her feet. She reaches one hand out towards her partner and helps him up.

"Alright, kitten," she says reluctantly. "Montmartre isn't going to patrol itself."


	7. waxing and waning

The bulletin board in Alya's room looks like something out of a bad thriller movie: highlighted news articles, pixelated cell phone pics, and carefully placed thumbtacks, complete with multicolored string hung up between them. Marinette stares at it for a little while, mind reeling, as she tries to make sense of the news headlines and the color-coded connections that Alya has drawn in between them. A map of the 21st arrondissement, a list of all known akuma victims to date, an excerpt from an exclusive interview she gave to the Ladyblog a few days ago are all pinned up to the board, a tangle of bright yellow string connecting them.

Marinette spends a few moments trying to puzzle out the link between those three things before deciding that Alya is straight-up crazy, and that she wants no part in this. She flops back onto Alya's bed and contemplates taking a nap instead. She's beginning to think that she should have worn her pajamas to this so-called "study session" instead of her undeniably cute but extremely uncomfortable gem-studded skinny jeans.

"It doesn't make any sense," Alya mutters, still staring at her bulletin board. She drums her fingers on the top of her desk in a steady rhythm, _tap tap tap_ , and Marinette has a hard time drowning the noise out. " _What_ was Ladybug trying to hide?"

"Maybe," Marinette suggests weakly, "she wasn't trying to hide anything."

Alya makes a low sound in her throat. "No. She was definitely hiding something, Marinette. I can tell when people are lying to me. I just _know_."

"Okay," Marinette agrees wearily. She really hopes Alya's wrong about that, but she doesn't have the energy to explore _that_ little dilemma right now.

Honestly, that nap is sounding more and more appealing, uncomfortable skinny jeans or no. She could really use a few hours of shut-eye. Or, you know, maybe like seven years of shut-eye. She had not known that it was possible to feel this tired and still be awake. She had not known that it was possible to feel this tired and still be _alive_.

Evening patrols might sound good in theory, but they were definitely taking their toll on Marinette's sleep schedule.

"It's weird, don't you think?" Alya continues, still drumming her fingers.

Marinette lifts her head slightly, but Alya doesn't look like she's going to say anything more. She sighs. "What's weird, Alya?" she asks.

"Ladybug," she says, sounding distracted. There's a squeaking of wheels as Alya pushes back her desk chair, then spins to face Marinette. "The savior of Paris. But we don't even know who she really is."

"Safer that way," Marinette suggests, shrugging half-heartedly.

"Safer for who?" Alya asks, frowning. "And that's not the only thing she's hiding. There are _so_ many unanswered questions—like, where did she get her Miraculous from? What's her history with Papillon? And _what_ wasn't she telling me?!"

Marinette bites down on her lower lip. With great reluctance, she rolls over and props herself up on her elbows so she can look at her best friend right in her eyes. "Alya," she says tentatively, "if she's really hiding something from you, it's probably just because she's trying to keep you safe."

"It's not her job to keep me safe," Alya mutters, brow furrowed.

"I think her job is to keep everyone in Paris safe, actually," Marinette says dryly.

"From _akumas_ ," Alya says passionately. She looks like she's on the verge of leaping out of her seat. "But this is—this is intentionally withholding information! She saw _something_ in that map, I'm telling you, and she has no right to keep it hidden from—"

"The people of Paris, I know," Marinette interrupts wearily.

Alya grumbles. "I'm just saying," she mutters, spinning around in her desk chair. She finally turns away from her bulletin board and begins fiddling with her phone instead. "I wish she was more... transparent, you know? It's hard to know what to expect when she's not telling us anything."

"Not telling you anything?" Marinette teases gently. "Hasn't she given you like three exclusive interviews?"

"Yes," Alya says proudly. "But she's still so... evasive. Half-truths and lies by omission. And I'm not the only one who thinks so. The longer this thing goes on, the less people like being in the dark about what's really happening."

Marinette feels her lip twitching slightly. _Everyone's a critic_ , she thinks to herself, a little sourly.

"D'Argencourt had some _really_ scathing things to say about her in his speech the other night," Alya continues, still typing away on her phone. "I should have a rebuttal up by tomorrow, though."

"So you're on Ladybug's side again?"

"Don't give me that sass," Alya says, mock-stern. She sticks her tongue out at Marinette. "I've always been on her side. She's the best protection this city has against Papillon. Even if she is hiding things from us, I still trust her more than that weirdo who dresses up all in black and keeps trying to fight the Mime with an antique sword."

Marinette lifts her head abruptly. "Someone is doing that?" she asks, bewildered.

"Yeah," Alya says, half-laughing. She brings up a picture on her phone, then passes it to Marinette. The image is dim and blurry, but exactly as Alya described. A single black-armored man waving a sword around near the burning Louvre. "They're calling him the Chevalier Noir. Some wannabe vigilante that thinks he's a medieval knight or something. I'm working on a post about him for the Ladyblog, but I want to fact-check a few things first."

"But why?" Marinette asks, passing the phone back to Alya.

"Well, I _do_ have standards, Marinette. I don't put just anything up on my blog."

"Not that. I mean, why is this guy—the Chevalier or whatever—doing this?"

Alya shrugs. "People are scared. Ladybug and Chat Noir have been fighting this Mime akuma for almost a month now. There's talk about getting _combat troops_ to patrol the streets of Paris. It's not that surprising that there are people out there trying to fight for themselves."

"But he's just a civilian!" Marinette says, her tone a little sharper than she'd intended it to be. Alya arches a single brow. "He's going to get himself hurt," she adds, quieter this time.

Alya leans over and pats Marinette lightly on the shoulder. "Hey, don't get so worried about it. I'm sure that Ladybug and Chat Noir will keep him out of trouble."

"Yeah," Marinette agrees distantly. "I hope so."

Because something _else_ to worry about was exactly what Marinette needed right now. Schoolwork, helping out at her parents' bakery, and evening patrols weren't enough to juggle already. Now she needs to make sure that overzealous reenactors don't get themselves killed in fights that they should be staying well away from.

She sighs and lowers her head again, resting it on her folded arms.

He probably doesn't even know how to use that sword.

* * *

" _En garde_ ," D'Argencourt says, raising his blade. Adrien mirrors the motion.

" _Prêt."_ Adrien takes a deep breath. _Keep your distance_ , he reminds himself. A bead of sweat drips down his forehead. His arm is beginning to get sore, and the bruises on his ribs from last night's battle aren't helping either. The effort of holding his own sword up seems almost unsurmountable.

" _Allez!"_

Modern fencing, honestly, is a very distant cousin to the sword duels that first inspired the sport hundreds of years ago. For one thing, Adrien's sabre is so dull and flimsy that he doubts he could draw blood with it even if he wanted to. For another, the speed of the sport is so fast-paced that single bout rarely lasts more than a few seconds. The moment the word _allez_ leaves D'Argencourt's lips, it's nothing but a flurry of footwork and feinting, their sabres whipping through the air faster than Adrien's eyes can follow. _Distance_ , he reminds himself, but it does him little good—D'Argencourt's blade hits him smack in the middle of his face mask, ending the bout.

"You let me get too close again," his teacher chides, retreating back to the starting line. "Keep your footwork smaller. It will help you control the distance. Again."

The next bout even more quickly. D'Argencourt sighs and lifts up his mask. "All right," he says, sounding weary. "I think that's enough for today."

Adrien reaches up to take off his helmet, tucking it under one arm. He wipes at the sweat on his forehead, trying to school his features into careful neutrality, but some trace of his disappointment must shine through. D'Argencourt frowns—the man is nothing if not perceptive.

"Chin up, Adrien," he says, softer now. "You're still making excellent progress. Your skills have grown a lot over these past few months. There's no reason to be worried about next Saturday's tournament."

Ha. If only his life were so simple that a _fencing tournament_ was the biggest worry he had.

Between schoolwork, seemingly endless extracurriculars, and the little detail that he moonlights as a superhero, next week's fencing tournament is just a tiny blip on his radar right now. Either he'll place well, and his dad will ignore him, or he'll place poorly, and his dad will be disappointed in him. Lose-lose.

"Besides," D'Argencourt adds warmly, misinterpreting Adrien's dark look, "most of your opponents won't be used to fighting someone who's left-handed. It's not much, but it will give you a slight advantage on them."

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Adrien mumbles, rubbing awkwardly at his neck.

"It's funny, you know," D'Argencourt says distantly. He pauses for a moment to take a sip from his water bottle, looking pensive as he swishes the drink around in his mouth. "When I was in school, the nuns would beat our knuckles if we wrote with our left hands. The Roman word for left-handedness was _sinister_ , a term that they also used to mean _unlucky_ _._ But in your case, it may be more good luck than bad."

"Sir?" Adrien asks, furrowing his brow.

D'Argencourt shakes his head slightly. "Ah, never mind me," he says pleasantly. "Just a foolish old man lost in his own thoughts. Go on, I know you have a schedule to keep."

Adrien glances briefly at the clock. D'Argencourt is right—he _does_ have a schedule to keep, and he's already late for patrol with Ladybug.

"See you next week," Adrien says hurriedly, and all but sprints out of the gym.

* * *

Outside, it's snowing.

Adrien has always loved the snow. Something about the way the flakes fall, fluttering down from the sky in slow, lazy spirals, has always made him feel strangely calm. The view is even better from the rooftops, where the whole world has been blanketed in a crisp layer of snow, untouched by human hand. It almost seems a shame to ruin it.

But Ladybug is waiting for him, and Paris needs its defenders. Chat Noir climbs carefully across the snow-covered rooftops, using his staff to vault between buildings that are too distant to leap to, and eventually lands nimbly on one of the stone gargoyles adorning the Notre Dame. From there it's a quick climb up to the top of the north tower, his usual meeting place with Ladybug.

She's already there waiting for him when he arrives. She stands facing the Seine, eyes closed and head tilted up towards the sky. Every so often a snowflake lands on her cheek, melting the instant it touches skin and leaving behind wet trails that could almost be mistaken for tears. But Ladybug's expression isn't sad, just serious.

Chat Noir approaches her slowly, footsteps crunching audibly in the snow. Ladybug doesn't move, just tilts her head slightly to let him know that she's heard him.

She doesn't say anything, so Chat speaks first.

"You look radiant tonight, my Lady," he says. "You threaten to outshine the moon herself."

Ladybug's eyes flutter open. The moon, not quite full and mostly obscured by cloud, watches on silently.

"Not that hard to do tonight," she says dryly.

" _Touché_ ," Chat Noir says, bowing his head slightly. "You _do_ look radiant, though." He pads over to stand beside her, but her eyes remain distant, out of focus.

"I have a bad feeling about tonight," Ladybug says quietly, her voice low and serious.

Chat Noir sobers at her tone. "Is something wrong?"

She hesitates a moment, biting down on her lower lip. "Oh, you know," she eventually says. "Just superstition. It's Friday the 13th, you know?"

Despite himself, Chat feels a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Funny," he says, "but I never would have thought you were the superstitious sort."

Ladybug shrugs one shoulder. "You know me. I'm just full of surprises."

"Well, I don't think you have anything to worry about, now that I'm here," Chat says lightly. "A black cat on Friday the 13th? Seems like the perfect combination to me."

"Really? Because from my end, it seems like double the bad luck," Ladybug teases. "I should probably be staying far, far away from you."

"Ouch, Ladybug. You wound me," Chat says. "I thought you would know by now that I only bring bad luck to _other_ people."

Ladybug turns away slightly, her expression gone serious again. "I know it's silly," she murmurs. "It's just hard to fight a lifetime of instinct, you know?"

"It'll be fine, Bug," Chat Noir says, trying to sound upbeat. "I know everything's kind of a mess right now, with the Mime on the loose and the city in shambles and... you know, bad stuff—but look on the bright side! It's a lovely evening, there's only one more week of school until Christmas break, and here we are, having this nice, romantic rendezvous atop Notre Dame herself."

Ladybug snorts. "This is not a romantic rendezvous, Chat Noir."

"Ah, there's that beautiful smile," Chat Noir says, waggling his eyebrows. Ladybug claps one hand over her mouth and looks away, flushing slightly. "Now you really do outshine the moon. You'd outshine the sun too, if it was around."

"Shameless flirt," Ladybug chastises, but she's still smiling.

"I would never," Chat says dramatically. He reaches for one of her hands and presses a quick kiss to her knuckles. "I speak with the utmost sincerity."

Ladybug rolls her eyes, but she doesn't pull away. Her hand lingers for a moment longer in his grip. "All right, you win," she says fondly. "Consider my spirits lifted. Race you to the Sacré-Coeur?"

* * *

Up until this point, you might have been thinking that this is a story about Ladybug and Chat Noir. But you would be wrong.

This story, you see, is about _power_.

The Mime, aka Fred Haprèle, knows a thing or two about power. It's something that he didn't have before. Something that he does have now. It's the reason that people cower in terror when he walks down the streets. The reason that there's food in his belly instead of hunger pangs.

It's also the reason why he's been spending the past month living alone in a barely-furnished basement in the 16th arrondissement, entering and exiting only by a secret doorway into Paris's elaborate underground catacombs. It's an unglamorous existence, cold and boring and lonely, but he has discovered that it is a small price to pay for this newfound power—for the thrill of destruction, for the rush in his veins when he sees the powerful men who used to make his life a living hell begging _him_ for a change.

A younger Fred might have said that there were some things he would never do, no matter what was being offered. A younger Fred had been unforgivably naive. What use are morals when you are poor and starving and homeless?

Besides, there is no one save God himself who can judge the Mime for his crimes now—and after a lifetime of neglect, the Mime hardly thinks that He's going to get involved _now_.

So when Papillon whispers orders into his mind—orders to hurt and to destroy—the Mime doesn't question them. _The Eiffel Tower_ , he whispers first, and the other monuments follow. Papillon is the one who led him to this hideout, and when Papillon commands him to stay, the Mime obeys.

Here he has a bed to sleep in, water to drink, food to eat—Papillon himself brings groceries twice a week, in his human form.

Papillon clearly has money. Everything about him—his posture, the way he dresses, his calculated disinterest in everything around him—telegraphs it loud and clear. He seems almost resentful that he has to suffer the indignity of bringing him his groceries every week. The Mime doubts that the man has bought his _own_ groceries in years.

Today Papillon comes bearing two sacks of supplies—bread, cheese, canned soup. Truly, the scourge of Paris eats like a king. This time Papillon has also brought along soap, nail clippers, and a newspaper. The Mime moves to put away the groceries, but Papillon throws the newspaper down in front of him instead.

The Mime leans forward slowly to look at the headline.

 _MIME STRIKES AGAIN_ , it reads, in angry bold font. _D'ARGENCOURT WANTS COMBAT TROOPS IN PARIS_ , it reads below, slightly smaller.

"You've done good work," Papillon says, his voice so disdainful that the words hardly even sound like praise.

But that's fine. He doesn't need praise from this man. The Mime skims the article, checking for lines that stand out. Mayor Bourgeois is under increasing scrutiny, members of the National Assembly have begun to flee the city, and even the president has made himself scarce lately. D'Argencourt promises that he would use military force against akumatized individuals if elected. The newspaper reporter wonders whether that would be strictly legal.

Papillon notices that he is reading the article and scoffs slightly. "That's not why I brought the paper," he says. "Do you know what today's date is?"

The Mime looks. Friday the 13th. He looks back at Papillon expectantly.

"An unlucky day," Papillon says thoughtfully. "Do you think that it will help or hurt our luck-themed superheroes?"

The Mime does not answer. Papillon may be able to whisper directly into his mind, but he cannot read his thoughts. The Mime keeps all his opinions locked safely away in his head.

"You certainly have a way with words, M. Haprèle," he says. A pained smile very briefly graces Papillon's lips. "Very well then. Sacré-Coeur today, I think."

The Mime stands without a word. He nods curtly at Papillon, then makes his way towards the door into the catacombs, slipping away into the darkness.

* * *

The Mime usually strikes at night. It's part of the reason why Ladybug and Chat Noir patrol almost exclusively after the sun has set. Not that it's ever done them any good—in all their weeks of patrolling, they'd never actually managed to stumble across him pre-attack. They always seem to arrive on scene just a little bit too late.

But on Friday, December 13th, Ladybug finds herself racing across icy Parisian rooftops towards the Sacré-Coeur Basilica. In an uncharacteristic moment of clumsiness, she finds herself sliding and stumbling instead of gliding easily across the skyline, and she ends up falling to the ground and crashing unceremoniously into the snow. You might, if you were so inclined, call this _bad luck._

Or you might, if you were Marinette's mother, withhold your judgment a little bit longer. _Good luck or bad luck?_ she might quip. _Too soon to_ _tell_ _!_

After all, Lady Luck—fickle creature that she is—is the very personification of unfairness. Ladybug's powers are all about unearned good fortune, about taking things from the universe and giving nothing back in return. Sometimes this effect can be very flashy—unshattering glass, mending fractured bone, calling _just_ the right item spontaneously into existence.

And sometimes this can be very subtle. Sometimes, Ladybug's superpowers are about _just happening_ to race your superhero partner to the Sacré-Coeur Basilica at exactly the same time that your enemy is traveling there to attack it. Sometimes it's about _just happening_ to slip on an icy rooftop and, by some miracle of timing, _just happening_ to land a few feet away from a secret entrance to Paris's underground catacombs while your enemy is cautiously climbing out of it.

Sometimes it's about _just happening_ to spot him a split-second before he spots you.

And sometimes, just sometimes, that extra split-second can make a lot of difference.

* * *

Luck really does work in strange ways, you know.

While near daily run-ins with akumatized individuals have become the norm in Paris, relatively few people ever end up in the vicinity of an actual fight. When Ladybug and the Mime start fighting at Square Louise-Michel on Friday the 13th, most people in the area call it _bad luck_ , and promptly flee the scene.

But you might, if you were trying to get close to the Mime, call it _good luck_.

* * *

The Mime swings an invisible rod at Ladybug, and it hits her in the side. _Hard_. She thinks she hears something crack. She's thrown off of her feet, flying over the hillside, and lands in crumpled heap near the stone steps that lead up to the Sacré-Coeur.

"LEFT!" Chat Noir bellows, and Ladybug rolls away just in time to avoid getting roasted by a grenade blast. The bomb hits the stairway, cracking stone and sending shrapnel flying, but Ladybug manages to escape with only a few scratches on her arms.

Still somewhat dazed, she forces herself back up to her feet, slipping slightly on the slushy snow below. Chat Noir is dueling the Mime one-on-one, using his staff to swat away more invisible grenades. They tear up the earth when they hit the icy ground, and a few of them even scorch the bright white facade of the Sacré-Coeur. "Turning this place into a real mime field!" Chat jokes, but his voice is strained.

Ladybug takes a deep breath and throws herself back into the fight, ignoring the pain in her ribs. The Mime, still absorbed in his battle with Chat Noir, doesn't see her yoyo until it's too late. He makes a feeble attempt to dodge, but she manages to clock him in the head anyway. Staggering slightly, the Mime retreats, sliding down the hillside on an invisible snowboard.

Ladybug jogs over to Chat's side, watching closely for the Mime's next move. For the moment, he seems content to pause their battle, assuming a defensive pose as he watches the superhero duo with narrowed eyes from his new position. Ladybug, who is having an increasingly hard time ignoring the pain in her side, can't say that she objects to a short break.

Chat must notice that she's hurting. His brow creases, and he half-reaches towards her, one hand hovering like he's almost afraid to touch her. "I'll be fine," she says before he has a chance to ask. "We can't let him get to the Basilica."

Chat glances up towards the top of the hill. "But how do we stop him?"

Ladybug looks around desperately, searching for anything that she could use to defeat the Mime, trying to imagine what kind of Lucky Charm she could use to magic her way out of this. She finds... absolutely nothing. The square is completely deserted, the bystanders all evacuated already, and between the abandoned vehicles and discarded litter scattered across the square, there is nothing—

—oh.

 _OH._

Ladybug gasps aloud, and Chat Noir follows her gaze.

"Oh," he says, taken aback.

Square Louise-Michel is completely evacuated, except for a single girl who marches quietly up the hillside. She is small and trembling with fear and hard to see clearly through the swirling snowfall, but those multicolored dreadlocks are pretty unmistakable.

It's Mylène Haprèle.

It seems obvious, in retrospect. Ladybug had assumed that the Mime would seek her out, but for some reason she had never thought that Mylène might be the one to go looking for _him_.

The Mime sees her too. Their eyes meet, and for just a moment, he hesitates. He wavers where he stands and Ladybug takes advantage of his momentary distraction to fling her yoyo out. She hits him hard in the middle of his chest, and the Mime stumbles backwards, falling into the snow. From the bottom of the hill, she can hear Mylène cry out in anguish.

"Chat Noir, you need to get her out of here," Ladybug says curtly, reeling her yoyo back in. The Mime, still dazed, scrambles back up to his feet.

"And leave you to fight the Mime alone?" Chat asks skeptically.

Ladybug grimaces. "It doesn't matter," she says. "Keeping civilians safe has to take priority."

"You really think that he would hurt his own daughter?"

Ladybug presses her lips together momentarily. "I don't know. But we can't risk it."

Chat hesitates a moment longer, mulling it over, but eventually relents. Ladybug glances briefly in his direction and sees him bounding away down the hill, making a beeline for Mylène.

Ladybug rolls her shoulders, turning her full attention back to the Mime. "It's just you and me now," she says, trying to sound more confident than she feels. She takes a few cautious steps towards the Mime, closing the distance between them.

Ladybug doesn't really know what she was expecting. A sword fight? More grenades? Some kind of attack, at least. She certainly wasn't expecting the Mime to hold up two empty hands, pushing them forward as if they had met an invisible wall.

She pauses momentarily, raising an eyebrow. Then, almost cautiously, she hurls her yoyo towards the Mime.

Just a few centimeters from his face, the yoyo stops, clattering noisily against an invisible barrier.

Instead of trying to fight Ladybug, the Mime runs—straight towards his daughter.

"Chat Noir!" Ladybug yells. "Look out!"

One of Chat Noir's ears flickers slightly. A split-second before the Mime reaches him, he dodges, throwing himself down into the snow to the right.

The Mime, instead of continuing towards his daughter, whirls around to face Chat Noir. He kneels in the snow, miming a bazooka over his shoulder. Chat is scrambling up to his feet, but he's too slow—there's no way he'll be able to make it out of the way in time.

Ladybug holds up one hand. "Lucky Charm!" she calls out desperately. She does not know what she could possibly summon that would help her out of this situation, and so she can only hope that the universe will give her something, _anything,_ that she can work with.

A red and black spotted megaphone falls into her hand.

 _What the heck am I supposed to do with this?_ Ladybug wonders, clutching at the handle desperately.

But she doesn't have time to think about it. Chat Noir is going to be toast if she doesn't act soon. So Ladybug brings the megaphone up to her mouth and bellows into it, " _DON'T DO IT_ _!"_

Ladybug doesn't know why she thought that would work, but by some miracle, it does. Maybe the Mime was just startled. Or maybe he heard the way her voice cracked, the naked terror that crept into her tone, and felt a faint glimmer of sympathy for the girl. Whatever the reason, he pauses, and Chat Noir takes advantage of his distraction to scurry away.

A vague, only half-coherent plan begins to form in Ladybug's mind.

"Don't do it," Ladybug says again, the megaphone projecting her voice over the entire hillside. "Think of your daugther, M. Haprèle. She's right there, watching everything. Show her that you're better than this."

The Mime is still frozen in place. His eyes dart between Ladybug and Mylène. He's contemplating her words, even if he has no answer to them. Mylène, still on the stairway, stands rooted in place, resisting Chat Noir's efforts to lead her away from the battle. She looks like she's on the verge of running over to her father, and it's only Chat's gentle grip on her shoulders that keeps her from rushing forward.

"I know you're still in there," Ladybug says. She takes a few cautious steps forward, and finds that the barrier the Mime had erected between them has disappeared into nothing. "Papillon gave you powers, but he can't control you. You don't need to do this."

The Mime tilts his head slightly to once side. _Papillon is speaking to him_ , Ladybug realizes dully.

"Don't listen to him!" Ladybug shouts. "You're better than this!"

The Mime stumbles, falling to his knees. He's still silent, but visibly in pain, wincing and clutching at his head. Ladybug is reminded of the Evillustrator's words: _He couldn't control me._ _I don't know what he did, but it hurt_.

So it seems when words fail to persuade his victims, Papillon has ways to make them suffer. Ladybug feels her lip curl. She tosses aside her megaphone and holds her hands up, and keeps moving towards the Mime with slow, gentle steps. She's reached Chat Noir now, and he reaches out to brush against her arm gently as she passes by. "Please," she says, even as the Mime winces in pain on the ground. "Please, I know you're still yourself under there, and if you fight it for just a little bit longer I can make all the pain go away."

" _Please_ ," Ladybug begs him. She crosses the last few steps to reach the Mime's side and she holds out one hand towards him.

The Mime, still on his knees, winces his pain. But he nods.

With one shaky hand, he reaches into a pocket. He pulls out tattered old black wallet and dumps its contents onto the ground in front of him. There is no money, not even a single coin, but amidst the faded receipts and colorful plastic cards, there is one thing of value to be found: a photograph. It's a weathered old thing—corners creased, edges worn, the colors beginning to fade—but clearly treasured.

"Thank you," Ladybug whispers sincerely. She snatches up the picture of Mylène.

"No more evildoing for you, little akuma," she murmurs as she rips the photograph neatly in half. A small black butterfly flutters out of the torn paper, but only manages a few flaps of its wings before Ladybug's cleansing magic overtakes it.

Black wings turn to white. The Mime shudders and Fred Haprèle is left in his place, bleary-eyed and confused. The cracked stairways are fixed, and the damaged facade of the Sacré-Coeur Basilica transforms back into smooth white. Ladybug even spares some magic to cure her own wounds, mending her cracked ribs and sealing the cuts on her arms.

Mylène does pull away from Chat Noir now, rushing over to her father and engulfing him in a hug. She knocks him over into the snow, but he's laughing—they're both laughing.

It's going to be okay. Ladybug's heart feels light in her chest.

She finally turns to face Chat Noir, a giggle bubbling up on her lips. He beams at her and holds out his arms.

She laughs outright now, charmed by the gesture even if she suspects it's just meaningless flirting. She runs over to accept his hug anyway. He lifts her off the ground and twirls her around once, twice before setting her back down gently on her feet. Chat pulls back slightly, leaving his hands still resting at her sides.

"Nice work, my Lady," he says softly.

"You too, kitty-cat," she says, smiling up at him.

He turns slightly, moving so that he has one arm draped casually over her shoulders, and just this once she allows the impropriety.

"Well, I don't know about you," he says proudly, surveying the scene before them, "but I'd say that was pretty miraculous."


	8. worthless salvation

Ladybug presses her back against the wall, breathing heavily.

With every exhale, she can see her breath condensing into the air, faint white clouds that are all too visible in the dimming light. She casts a quick glance towards the sky, trying to judge whether it'll give her position away. Of course, that doesn't matter if the noise gives her away first. Every gasp for air is too loud, a cacophony in the near silence that has fallen around the Notre Dame cathedral. Maybe she should just try holding her breath.

She doesn't know where Chat Noir is. She lost track of him all the way back at the Place du Châtelet, and she feels his absence almost as a physical pang. He's still nearby, she knows—she can sense him, just barely, the faintest whisper of his presence—but she doesn't know where. If she could just pinpoint his location, then maybe...

A wail from the sky ends her train of thought." _Alouette, gentille alouette,_ " croons a voice from overhead, mournful and off-key. Ladybug squeezes her eyes shut and holds her breath. The shadow passes, and Ladybug exhales shakily.

When Marinette was at her lowest moments, Tikki had often reassured her that Ladybug would grow more powerful with time. What Tikki had neglected to mention was that the same held true for Papillon as well. When he had created M. Pigeon back in November, he'd only been able to gift the man power over a single species of bird. But this _Alouette_ has seized control over most of the birds of Paris—jays, finches, starlings, crows. Even a few raptors have descended upon the city, joining the swarm that circles menacingly overhead.

Alouette is no Mime, at least. There's some comfort in that.

For a long time after the Mime's defeat, Papillon had been silent. Not a single akuma appeared to terrorize the citizens of Paris. Maybe he was nursing his wounds. Hatching a new plan. Or maybe he had finally felt a glimmer of humanity, and decided to spare them his usual torment over the Christmas holiday. Whatever the reason, the people of Paris were blessed with three solid weeks without supervillainy. Ladybug had even dared to hope that Papillon might be finished for good.

But the season had ended. Students had reluctantly returned to their classes. And Papillon was back to his usual routine, hitting them with six akumas over the past four days.

Overhead, Alouette is still circling. Ladybug can get a good angle on her from her position, but she can catch glimpses of her huge, feathered arm-wings.

" _Alouette, je te PLUMERAI!_ " she shrieks, and the akumatized bird-woman dives to the ground.

Chat Noir curses loudly and rolls out of his hiding spot just seconds before he would have been skewered by Alouette's claws. A wave of relief washes over Ladybug, but time is a luxury that she doesn't have right now. Instead of rushing over to embrace her partner, she side-steps cleanly out of her hiding spot and hurls her yoyo at Alouette.

The yoyo catches around her ankle, wrapping securely around it, and Alouette falters mid-flight. Ladybug widens her stance and begins reeling her in, but the harpy shrieks and tears at the yoyo's string with her teeth.

Her yoyo, despite being made out of magic, is not quite unbreakable. Alouette's razor sharp teeth make quick work of it, severing the string cleanly. Her yoyo clatters to the ground, unreachably far away.

Ladybug darts back behind a buttress as Alouette shrieks and climbs back up into the sky. Chat Noir is by her side a moment later. She's turned away from him, so she can't see his face, but she feels the familiar press of his back against hers.

"So," he whispers, "what's the new plan?"

"Still working on it," Ladybug mutters tersely.

"Okay," Chat Noir says, his voice laced with tension. "I don't want to rush you or anything, Ladybug, but do you think you could summon a Lucky Charm or something sooner rather than later? Because there's someone else coming this way, and I don't like the look of him."

"Someone else?" Ladybug asks. She turns her eyes down from the sky, scanning the nearby streets. "What on earth are they doing here?"

She gets her answer a moment later. A single figure, tall and lean, is marching confidently down the middle of the street. While all the other civilians have fled the site—or at least are giving the fight a wide berth—this man strides forward without any hesitation. He's dressed in all black armor, like some kind of medieval knight, and armed to the teeth. As he approaches, he reaches for a crossbow that's strapped to his back, and aims it at the sky.

 _So this is the Chevalier Noir_ , Ladybug thinks warily. Alya hadn't been kidding about this guy.

After a moment's hesitation, he fires. His aim is true, and a blood-curling scream rings out over the city. Alouette, impaled through the ribs, falls like lead from the sky. She crashes down to the ground, landing in a mangled heap at the base of a fountain with a sickening crunching sound. She emits a high-pitched wail after she hits the ground, her voice wracked with pain.

Ladybug rushes towards the fallen villain, but the Chevalier beats her there. He seizes Alouette by a fistful of her hair, ignoring her cries, and roughly hauls her up. Alouette scrabbles against him, clawing helplessly at his armor, as he wrenches off the owl-shaped brooch that's fastened to the top of her sweater.

The Chevalier throws the brooch down at the ground and crushes it beneath his foot. A small black butterfly flutters away.

Wordlessly, Ladybug holds up her hands. Her fingers tingle with warmth as the magic passes through them. The butterfly is purified, Alouette—now just an ordinary, scared-looking young woman—is healed, and her blood is cleansed from the cobblestones below.

"Wh-wh-what happened?" the woman stutters. She is trembling visibly, and presses one hand to her side. "Why am I—who—"

Chat Noir is at her side in an instant, murmuring quiet reassurances. The Chevalier, apparently satisfied with his work, turns to leave.

 _Ha._ As if Ladybug's about to let him off that easy.

She darts out to her fallen yoyo, snatches it up, and in one smooth motion hurls it a the Chevalier. The string of her yoyo twists up neatly around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. The Chevalier glances briefly back towards her.

"And what the hell was that supposed to be?" Ladybug demands, her voice shaking with rage.

The Chevalier calmly unwraps her yoyo from his arm. "She was akumatized," he says. His voice is smooth and quiet, muffled slightly by his helmet. "I neutralized the threat."

"She's an _innocent civilian!_ " Ladybug snaps. She steps towards the Chevalier threateningly, her eyes flashing. "You could have killed her!"

The Chevalier lets out a short bark of laughter at that. "Innocent?" he drawls, tone dripping with contempt. "I don't think you understand the meaning of that word."

Ladybug makes a low, growling sound somewhere in the back of her throat. "She's just as much a victim as anyone," she says, taking a few steps closer to the Chevalier. "Papillon was _controlling_ her—"

"But he wasn't, was he?" the Chevalier interrupts coolly. Ladybug is silent for a moment, taken aback, and the Chevalier all too gladly elaborates. "You've said it yourself in a dozen interviews. These so-called _victims_ still act on their own power."

A quiet rage settles somewhere in Ladybug's chest. "Just because he can't _directly_ control them," she says, her voice low and threatening, "doesn't mean that he doesn't have power over them."

The Chevalier shakes his head. "I don't disagree," he says, "but you're naive if you think you can go on winning fights like this. Your battles have all been bloodless so far, but how long do you really think that's going to last? One day, someone is going to get hurt, and you're not going to be able to fix it."

The Chevalier gestures with one armored hand towards the de-akumatized woman. "Which would you rather have on your conscience, Ladybug? _Her_ death? Or the deaths of the people you let her kill?"

Ladybug's jaw clenches. "We had the situation under control," she says tersely. "You were out of line."

Ladybug can't make out the Chevalier's eyes behind his helmet, but she can feel his gaze on her. "You're just a child," he finally says, and the sneer is clear in his tone even if she can't see his face. "You couldn't possibly understand."

The quiet rage in Ladybug's chest gets a lot louder. After _everything_ she has done for the city—after all the sacrifices she had made, the sleepless nights, her faltering school grades, the scrapes and bruises and fractured bones—this man has the gall to dismiss her. Because she's _j_ _ust a child_.

She takes a threatening step towards him, eyes flashing, yoyo gripped tight in her fist. She's on the verge of attacking when Chat Noir stops her.

"Ladybug," he says in a low, smooth voice. "Is now really this best time for this?"

Ladybug freezes where she stands and tilts her head slightly to look back at her partner. The de-akumatized woman is clinging tightly to Chat Noir's arms, hyperventilating, with a wild look in her eyes.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ladybug can see the Chevalier leaving, walking briskly away from the scene.

She's tempted to follow after him. If this is the way the Chevalier wants to do business, he's going to become a serious problem for them sooner or later. Probably sooner, if Papillon keeps up this pace of akumatizations.

But there's an innocent woman who needs her help, and she's not about to abandon Chat Noir, no matter how badly this Chevalier guy needs to get his ass kicked. So she cools her rage. Lowers her yoyo.

With slow, deliberate steps, she goes to Chat Noir's side and kneels by the de-akumatized woman.

"Hey," she says gently. "Let's get you home, okay?"

* * *

They don't talk about the Chevalier in front of Alouette. But Ladybug and Chat Noir don't always need words to communicate. There is a hardness in his eyes that says _later_. Ladybug nods.

After they return the woman to her apartment in the 21st arrondissement, safely in the care of her sister, Ladybug and Chat Noir part ways without a word. They both spend half an hour recharging their kwami, then meet atop the Notre Dame for their usual patrol route.

Though the patrols had started as a way to try to track down the ever-illusive Mime, they had kept up with them even after his defeat. They'd never actually encountered anything while out on patrol, but it was a small gesture that went a long way in reassuring the Parisian people that their city was still safe.

Ladybug arrives first, and she waits in the cold with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Chat Noir joins her just a few minutes later, his movements markedly slower than usual as he carefully picks his way across the icy rooftop to stand by her side.

"Who was that?" he asks in a low voice. "The man in the black armor?"

"They call him the Chevalier Noir," Ladybug says slowly. She presses her lips together, pausing for a moment in thought. "Or Alya does, anyway."

"The Ladyblogger? I didn't realize she had posted about this guy."

Ladybug winces slightly. She really needed to start keeping better track of what Alya had _actually_ posted about and what things she had only shared with Marinette. "I ran into her a few days ago," she lies, kicking at a chunk of ice with her feet. "We talked about a few things. She mentioned that this guy was out there—I didn't realize how serious he was, though."

Chat Noir stares blankly at the ground, apparently deep in thought.

"So what are we going to do about him?" he finally asks, lifting his eyes up to met Ladybug's.

Ladybug shakes her head. "I'm still working on that," she admits wearily. "Ugh, this is all such a mess!"

"He's wrong, you know," Chat says quietly.

"About what?"

"The akuma victims. They deserve to be protected as much as anyone else." He shifts his weight awkwardly between his feet, looking almost indecisive before he adds, "I don't think that a moment of emotional weakness should be a death sentence."

"I know that," Ladybug says, just a little indignant.

Chat Noir smiles sheepishly at her. "Right. Right! Of course you know. I was just—just rambling, you know?"

Well, Ladybug can hardly hold that against him. Marinette's been known to get pretty rambly herself.

"We should get moving," she says, reaching for her yoyo. "We're obviously not getting anything done standing around here and talking."

"Right," Chat agrees. "Le Marais today?"

Ladybug shakes her head. "I was thinking we might try the Latin Quarter," she says somewhat tentatively.

"That's a new addition to the routes."

"There haven't been many attacks in that area," Ladybug acknowledges. "But..."

She trails off, and Chat fills in for her. "But that doesn't mean that they're not afraid," he says. "It'll be good to increase our presence in that area."

Ladybug had never fancied herself much of a politician. But apparently it came with the turf when you were a superhero.

"We'll head for the Luxembourg Gardens and then swing right towards Jussieu," Ladybug explains curtly, leaping to a nearby rooftop. Chat Noir follows after her, as always "From there..."

Ladybug pauses, and instead of jumping to the next rooftop, she turns to look back over her shoulder.

"Something wrong?" Chat Noir asks.

"Yes," Ladybug says distantly. She points to a distant figure, a young girl huffing and puffing as she half-jogs, half-slides through the slushy roads below, rushing towards the Notre Dame.

It's Mylène Haprèle.

* * *

"Shhh," Chat Noir murmurs soothingly, rubbing one hand in soft circles on Mylène's back. "It's okay. It's all going to be okay."

Mylène sniffles loudly, and reaches for the napkin box in the middle of the table again. Ladybug averts her eyes as the girl noisily blows her nose. She still doesn't really know what you're supposed to say when people are crying. She lets her eyes roam over the dim, shadowy café instead, watching patrons and employees alike carefully busy themselves with other tasks as they pretend not to eavesdrop.

"I didn't know who else to go to," Mylène says tearfully. "Everyone else..."

She trails off into quiet sobs again. "It's alright," Chat says, voice low and soft. "We're going to do everything we can to help you. Right, Ladybug?"

"Y-yeah," Ladybug says awkwardly, her gaze drawn back to Mylène. "Of course we will."

"Now, how long ago was your father arrested?" Chat Noir asks gently.

Mylène pauses a moment, gathering herself together. She closes her eyes, but a few tears leak out anyway, leaving wet trails down her cheeks. "Yesterday morning," she finally says, voice thin.

"More than twenty-four hours ago," Chat Noir muses, looking thoughtful for a moment. "Has he been charged yet?" he asks hopefully.

Mylène shakes her head, and Chat's expression falls. "That's... unusual," he mutters. Sighing, he runs one hand through his hair, leaving it in an even wilder state than it's normally in. "Did he tell you what he had been accused of?"

"It's because of what he did when... " Mylène trails off, sounding on the verge of breaking into tears again.

"When he was akumatized," Chat Noir fills in gently. "I know. But do you know what specific crimes they arrested him for? Vandalism, destruction of property, reckless use of magic...?"

"Attempted murder," Ladybug mutters under her breath. She earns herself a stern look from Chat Noir, but her words go unnoticed by Mylène.

Mylène shakes her head. "I don't know."

They fall into an abrupt silence when a waitress approaches, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs of hot chocolate. She sets them down, one in front of each of the children, very deliberately avoiding eye contact with any of them as she does.

"Anything else I can get you guys?" the waitress asks nervously, her gaze fixed on her shoes.

Ladybug sinks down silently in her seat. Chat Noir glances at her, then at Mylène, and says warmly, "No, I think that's all for now. Thank you so much." The waitress doesn't hesitate to scurry awkwardly away.

Mylène grips her mug tightly but doesn't drink from it. "You two can help him, can't you? They can't—they can't just do this to him, right?"

"Of course not," Ladybug says firmly. "They won't get away with this. I'll break him out myself if I have to."

Chat Noir coughs uncomfortably. "I don't think that's going to help right now, Ladybug," he says quietly.

"Why not?" Ladybug demands sharply. Mylène jumps slightly, visibly startled, and some of the eavesdroppers in the café forget that they're pretending not to listen. "It's been almost a month since M. Haprèle was de-akumatized. Why wait until now to arrest him?"

Chat Noir grimaces. "Ladybug..."

"Don't you _Ladybug_ me!" she snaps. "This obviously isn't about getting justice. Have they arrested _any_ of the other akuma victims? No! This is about _revenge_. The Mime went on a rampage through Paris and it made everyone look bad. The police, the National Assembly, Mayor Bourgeois—even _us!_ There's someone out there who pulled some strings to make this happen."

Chat Noir glances discreetly around the café, prompting onlookers to guiltily look away. "Even if that is true," he says, "we have to do this the _right_ way—"

"What, by letting them get away with this?!" Ladybug bursts out.

" _No_ ," Chat says, beginning to raise his voice. "But we can't just _fight_ our way out of every situation—"

"We're superheroes! That's what we do!"

"We fight _villains!_ We're not supposed to use our powers to _stage a coup!_ "

Ladybug draws back slightly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Yeah? Says who?" she asks darkly.

There's real worry in Chat's eyes now. "Ladybug, you can't mean that."

Ladybug grinds her teeth together, silent for a moment. The tension in the room is palpable, and poor Mylène looks like she's on the verge of diving down to hide under the table. Her grip on her mug has gone white-knuckled.

"No," she finally admits, glancing away. "But what else are we supposed to do?"

"We can work within the system," Chat says smoothly, as much to Mylène as to Ladybug. "We'll make sure M. Haprèle gets tried fairly. I'm sure that the charges against him won't hold up in court. And if someone really is misusing their power, we'll make sure that they're held accountable for it."

"And just how do you plan on doing that?" Ladybug asks skeptically. Her arms are still crossed tightly over her chest.

For the first time, Chat looks uncertain. "Just... trust me?"

Ladybug bites down on her lower lip. "You know I always do," she eventually murmurs, glancing away.

Chat Noir turns his attention back to Mylène. She still looks a little terrified, wide-eyed and trembling, but she's calmer now. She even manages to take a tentative sip at her hot chocolate.

"We'll get this worked out," Chat tells her. "I promise."

* * *

There are many kinds of corruption in this world.

Some types of corruption are very obvious about it. They are sauntering unapologetically into the principal's office, invoking your father's name—and his bank account—to get preferential treatment, and going on your merry way.

Some types of corruption are slightly less obvious. Sometimes they're just about being born with the right name, the right connections, and enough money to hire a good lawyer.

Some people might prefer to call this _good luck_. But Adrien doesn't believe in luck, just probability.

The first thing Adrien does when he arrives at school on Monday morning is make a beeline for Chloé. She's already in her seat in the classroom, looking bored as she taps away on her phone. On her right, Sabrina is chattering away nervously as she works on two copies of the same physics assignment. Adrien takes a deep breath and then slides into the chair at Chloé's left.

Chloé glances up at him, smirking slightly. " _Oh là là_ ," she drawls sarcastically. "What have I done to convince the one and only Adrien Agreste to grace me with his presence this morning?"

Adrien smiles nervously at her. "We're friends, aren't we Chloé?"

Chloé runs her eyes up and down him, looking thoughtful. "Yeah, something like that."

Adrien isn't sure he fully understands what she's implying, but that's nothing new for either of them. "I actually wanted to ask you something," he says. Chloé makes soft huffing sound under her breath. "It's about M. Haprèle."

Chloé arches one perfectly shaped brow. "Is this about Mylène?" she asks disdainfully. "Listen, honey, you know you can do so much better than that, right? Also, not to be mean or anything, but she's already dating that freak that tried to kill me at the beginning of the school year."

Adrien resists the urge to roll his eyes. "No, it's about your father," he says, trying to keep his tone as pleasant as possible. "I know this might sound kind of crazy, but do you know if there's any chance he was... you know... maybe involved with M. Haprèle's arrest?"

With a shrug, Chloé returns her attention to her cell phone. "Yeah, probably," she says, sounding wholly unbothered. "He mentioned something about it the other day. Well really it was his secretary, but same difference. Anyway he's trying to make his campaign about 'restoring faith in the system,' whatever that's supposed to mean, and it apparently involved bribing the chief of police."

Adrien balks slightly. "Chlo, you know that's... super corrupt, right?"

"That's just how politics works, Adrien," Chloé says dismissively. "If you're still worried about Mylène, I guess you should tell her not to worry? He's just doing it because D'Argencourt won't stop talking about Paris's little butterfly problem, and Daddy needed to toughen his stance on the issue. Anyway, it's all going to blow over soon. Just as soon as people stop freaking out over this whole akuma thing."

"People _are_ getting really freaked out," Sabrina pipes up helpfully, looking up from her desk for the first time. "My dad even bought me a taser. He makes me carry it around everywhere, just in case."

"Excuse me, did anyone ask you?" Chloé snaps. She whirls on the girl, and Sabrina shrinks back in her seat.

"I—um—no, sorry," she squeaks. She quickly returns to her physics assignments.

"Well, I think that was a very helpful comment, Sabrina," Adrien says kindly. Sabrina glances up at him hesitantly, but Chloé speaks up before she has a chance to say anything more.

"It's all stupid anyway," Chloé says. "Ladybug will take care of everything. She always does."

"Yeah," Adrien says distantly. "She really does."

* * *

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of Mme. Bustier's literature classroom, Alya and Marinette sit huddled together, whispering in increasingly frantic voices to one another.

"This is it," Marinette says. "It's all over now. He's going to confess his love to Chloé and then—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Alya says, talking over her. "They're just having a normal conversation. _You_ could try having a normal conversation with him too, you know."

"—they'll get married and have two—no, three—children and they'll all have beautiful blonde hair and Adrien's perfect green eyes, and I'm going to end up a sad and alone with nothing but my thirty-two cats to keep me company—"

"Do you even hear yourself, Marinette?"

"—and they're all going to be black cats, every last one of them, because I have the _worst_ luck—"

"Shh, he's coming this way!"

Marinette abruptly slams her mouth shut and looks up. Adrien has left Chloé's side and is now approaching her, looking slightly nervous. When he sees that she's looking at him, he raises one hand and waves slightly. Marinette's face goes beet red, and she looks away quickly.

"Just say hello," Alya whispers to her out of the corner of her mouth.

"Hi Marinette," Adrien says.

"H-h-h—" Marinette attempts. Alya softly sighs and shakes her head. "H-hi, Adrien," she finally manages.

"Hey Alya," Adrien says, sliding into the seat in front of her. "I actually wanted to ask you a question."

Marinette's heart stops. _This is it_ , she thinks, feeling a rising panic in her chest. It's all over now. Adrien's looking at Alya so intensely that it can only mean _one thing_ , and that thing is that he's going to confess his love to her and Marinette's going to be a supportive best friend and not interfere with Alya's love life, even if her crush is getting crushed right before her very—

"It's about your latest blog post," he says quietly, and suddenly Marinette can breathe again.

Okay, she really needs to stop letting her imagination run away like that.

"Oh?" Alya asks coyly. She shoots a knowing glance at Marinette. "You know, Marinette's a pretty big fan of my blog too."

Adrien's face brightens slightly. "Really?" he asks, turning to Marinette.

Marinette searches for something to say, her mouth flapping wordlessly, before she just gives up and nods silently. "That's great," he says cheerfully. "Then I can get your opinion too!"

 _Oh no._

They're both looking at her expectantly. Marinette feels a fluttering in her stomach that's quickly turning into full-blown panic. She hasn't read Alya's latest post. She hasn't even glanced at the Ladyblog's headlines in—what, a week? Two weeks? _Longer_ , maybe?

"I-I..." Marinette begins, voice high and reedy. "Um..."

Alya rolls her eyes, but she's smirking slightly. "What Marinette means," Alya fills in for her, "is that she's a pretty big fan of the Chinese-origin theory."

"Y-yes!" Marinette agrees loudly. Alya winks at her. "Definitely Chinese."

"See, I thought that was a pretty compelling theory too," Adrien says, fishing through his backpack. "But I did some research of my own."

He sets down a library book on the desk between them, and flips to a page that's practically coated with annotated sticky notes. Alya's eyebrows shoot up. "So you argued for a Chinese origin via the Anatolian goddess Cybele," Adrien says, gesturing with his hands as he does, "but I've found some information about a Roman cult of Isis-Fortuna in the second century, which might suggest that Ladybug's Miraculous actually came from _Egypt_!"

Marinette chokes slightly, but neither Alya nor Adrien seems to notice. Reflexively, she reaches up with one hand to rub nervously at one of her earrings. It's slightly warm beneath her touch, and she's all too aware of how Tikki is currently stashed away in her purse, literally smack dab in the middle of this conversation.

Alya picks up the book, squinting. "This is in Italian," she says incredulously.

"Oh—I can translate, if you need," Adrien offers sheepishly.

Alya waves him off. "It's fine," she murmurs, flipping through a few pages. "This Egyptian goddess—she was a luck deity?"

"Not traditionally," Adrien admits, "but she was said to have incredible healing powers. Not only that, Cleopatra—a known Miraculous wielder—also went by the name New Isis."

Well, this conversation is just getting more and more awkward. Marinette averts her gaze and hopes that the flaming red on her cheeks isn't a dead giveaway. Fortunately for her, Adrien and Alya alike appear to be more interested in this new theory than Marinette's discomfort.

"You make a pretty convincing argument, Agreste," Alya is saying thoughtfully. "But Cleopatra's Miraculous—"

Alya stops abruptly when Mme Bustier sweeps into the classroom, signaling the start of class, and passes the book back to Adrien. "We'll talk more later," she promises him.

Then she turns to Marinette, smiling that self-satisfied smirk again. It only growns bigger when she notices how red Marinette's face has gone. "Who knew Adrien was such a nerd?" she whispers almost gleefully. "But this is great—it gives you two something you can talk about!"

"Y-yep," Marinette says, nervously twirling her pencil between her fingers. "Definitely."

She resolves to get totally caught up on the Ladyblog as soon as school lets out.

* * *

The top post on the Ladyblog that afternoon is Alya's long-awaited write-up on the Chevalier Noir, posted sometime between history and physics.

"When did she even have time to do this?" Marinette asks incredulously. Tikki only shakes her head.

The second post is a lengthy, rambly speculation on the origins of Ladybug's Miraculous—the one she and Adrien had been talking about earlier. Using what scant historical and archaeological evidence she could find, Alya had thrown together a haphazard argument that the Roman goddess Fortuna had actually been based on an ancient Ladybug.

Marinette only briefly skims the article. "This... can't possibly be true, can it, Tikki?"

Tikki makes soft humming sound. "Your friend Alya certainly has a talent for jumping to conclusions," she says, sounding amused.

Marinette leans back on her bed, settling against the pillows. Her phone is still in her hand but she's not looking at it anymore. "But... there have been others, right? Ladybugs that came before me."

Tikki nods. "Yes, Marinette," she says gently. "I've worked with many Ladybugs before. Many of them have even left their marks on history! But you needn't worry about this theory of Alya's."

Marinette shivers slightly. "It's still a little weird to think about, though," she says.

She'd always known a little bit about the Miraculouses, of course. Just, you know, the little details that everyone knew—that they existed. That they were incredibly powerful. That they'd been around for a long, _long_ time, to the point that it was practically impossible to distinguish myth from history.

She had never, before today, given much thought to the Ladybugs that must have preceded her. It makes sense, though—somebody had to have had the Miraculous before she did.

She hesitates a moment before asking, "Who were you with before me? I mean, who was the last Ladybug?"

Tikki smiles softly. "A wonderful young woman," she says. "Strong, brave, kind. A lot like you."

"Did she... was she the one who gave me the earrings?"

Tikki's smile falters slightly. "No," she says, glancing away. "A Miraculous is a huge responsibility, and we have to be very careful when choosing new wielders."

"Oh," Marinette says. She doesn't know whether she's disappointed with that answer or not.

Before she gets a chance to think much harder about it, Tikki flits up close to her face and taps her on the nose playfully. "You're getting distracted, Marinette!" she teases lightly. "Didn't you want to get caught up on the Ladyblog?"

"Right," Marinette agrees, turning her attention back to her phone. She scrolls down to Alya's next post— _WHAT IS PAPILLON REALLY AFTER?_ reads the title—and Marinette taps on the link.

 _Everyone knows that Papillon wants Ladybug and Chat Noir's Miraculouses_ , the story begins. _Some of you have even written in to suggest that our problems would be solved if Ladybug and Chat Noir just handed them over, like Papillon wants._

Marinette grimaces and glances over to Tikki.

"Keep reading?" the kwami suggests, her voice sugary sweet.

 _But I think Papillon has something bigger in mind_ , Alya's post continues. _An evil plan that can only be accomplished by gathering more power..._

Marinette skims through the next few paragraphs. It's mostly just speculation, but it raises a lot of questions—things that Marinette had never really considered before. An uncomfortable weight settles somewhere in her stomach.

"Tikki, what _does_ Papillon want? I mean, _really_ want?" she asks, glancing up from her phone. "The Miraculouses... but why? What could he possibly hope to accomplish with ours that he couldn't already do with his own?"

Tikki shakes her head. "Each Miraculous is different," she begins carefully. "Plagg and I... we are not like the others. Good luck and bad luck are never truly separate."

Marinette shakes her head. "I don't understand," she says, her brows furrowing together. "Aren't good luck and bad luck basically opposites?"

Her kwami is silent for a long moment, deep in contemplation. "It's more complicated than that," she eventually says, her tone gentle. "Humans sometimes imagine us as a wheel. The wheel of fortune can turn in two directions, Marinette, but there has only ever been one wheel. Separately, Plagg and I are very powerful. But we are each limited by the other. We must remain in balance.

"Wielded together, though, we are infinitely more powerful. If a human were to use both of our Miraculouses at the same time, they would have nearly limitless power over fortune itself... anything, no matter how improbable, would be possible for them."

Marinette stares, mouth slightly ajar. "Wow," she eventually says. "That's kinda scary."

Tikki flies over towards Marinette and lands delicately on her shoulder. "I did not mean to scare you," she says gently, nuzzling up against Marinette's cheek. Marinette closes her eyes and leans into the touch.

"No, I'm glad I know," she murmurs. "So you and Plagg are like... twins or something?"

Tikki pauses a moment. "Not exactly. There is no human word that can adequately describe the relationship I have with Plagg. He is my equal and opposite. We are two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same whole. But we are not like humans. Thinking of us in human terms can be... misleading."

Marinette spends a moment trying to process that statement. "Oookay," she eventually says. "Okay. That makes sense, I think. Maybe."

She leans back in her bed again, still scrolling through Alya's blog post on her phone. Then she suddenly sits bolt upright.

"Wait!" she says. "If Plagg is your equal and opposite, then why does Chat Noir get a cooler costume than I do?"

Tikki actually laughs at this, a high, melodious giggle that makes Marinette flush slightly. "Oh, Marinette," she says fondly. "Are you unhappy with your costume when you are Ladybug?"

"Well, I mean, I wouldn't object to some pockets," Marinette says. "And maybe some tougher shoes? I'm just saying, my feet are _covered_ in blisters."

"Then we can change it," Tikki says, smiling sweetly.

"We can? How?"

"When we transform into Ladybug, it's not just me that's changing you," Tikki says sagely. "You are also changing me. Your transformation and abilities are shaped by your own desires, beliefs, and expectations."

Marinette lifts one eyebrow skeptically. "So, you're saying I could have, like, a flaming sword instead of a yoyo if I wanted to?"

"Only if you _truly believed_ that Ladybug should have a flaming sword," Tikki says, laughing a little. "Do you?"

Marinette scrunches up her nose. "No, that would be kind of silly," she says sheepishly. "But I could have pockets? And shoes?"

Tikki nods. "Try it," she says.

Marinette glances around her room nervously. "Right now?"

"Right now."

Marinette checks her room one more time, then skips down to the trapdoor that leads to her attic bedroom. She drops a heavy pile of textbooks on the door—a pretty good deterrent against nosy parents—and then smiles up mischievously at her kwami.

"Okay, Tikki," she says. "Transform me!"


	9. gifted by fortune

Adrien doesn't believe in luck, per se. He believes in _probability_.

Fact: There have been twenty-three akuma incidents in the past month, at an average of 0.7419 per day. Of those twenty-three, seventeen of them were contained entirely in the 21st arrondissement. Only one of those attacks happened to fall on a Thursday.

Statistically speaking, an attack near the Trocadéro on a Thursday seemed unlikely. But on one very particular Thursday in mid-February, a young woman—( _Aquaria,_ Alya will later name her)—is akumatized in the Trocadéro Gardens.

If you were Alya, you might not think much of this unusual combination of events. After all, people are getting akumatized nearly every day, and as far as Alya was concerned this was a day like any other.

If you were Adrien Agreste, on the other hand, you might think it was a _very_ unlikely coincidence that the attack at the Trocadéro happened to fall on the same day as the seventh anniversary of his mother's disappearance. You might even, if you were so inclined, call it _bad luck_.

And if you were Aquaria, the villain of the day, you might—in your weakest moments and the darkest corners of your heart—call it _good luck_. Because in the end, really, wasn't it very fortunate that _she_ , out of all the unhappy people of Paris, got the chance to go on a guilt-free roaring rampage of revenge?

Seven weeks from now, when the full reality of the situation finally sinks in, Aquaria—aka Irène Delacourt—will spend a long, long time grappling with her conscience.

But for today... well. Today, she stands at the edge of the Trocadéro Gardens, her back turned towards the Seine, and takes delight in the power that is surging through her veins. Aquaria is a petite woman, willowy and pale, and she looks almost fragile, standing there in her too-large dress, a fluttery mess of layered blue and green silk that's threatening to engulf her. But despite all appearances, she is very, _very_ powerful.

The wind ruffles her dress and sends tresses of mousy brown hair flying into her face. Aquaria doesn't bother to push them back. Instead she lifts her arms towards the sky, swaying slightly where she stands. As she moves her hands through the air, the water moves with her, and the storm that she's brewing makes last month's "Climatika" seem quaint by comparison.

She motions dramatically with one clawed hand directly over her head, and the Seine River leaps up from its banks, a snake of water twisting through the darkened skies above her. As the water writhes, barely contained by her power, droplets of water spatter the ground below.

"NO ONE WILL _**EVER**_ HURT ME AGAIN," she booms, her voice so magnified and distorted that it hardly even sounds human.

The water crashes against the Eiffel Tower on the far side of the river. From the point of impact, the tower shudders as long, wide cracks spider across its metal frame. Ladybug makes a strangled sound of horror from her spot next to Chat Noir.

"I _just_ finished fixing that!" she hisses.

"Looks like you'll have to take another crack at it," Chat says, wincing as the top of the tower creaks and sways. It stops just short of toppling over... for now, anyway.

"Do you think there are still civilians at the Champ de Mars?" he asks casually. The slight trembling of his hands betrays his worry.

Ladybug watches the Eiffel with a critical eye. "I saw the police clearing the field earlier," she says. "We'll have to trust that they've done their job. We've got bigger problems to deal with."

With one hand, she runs her fingers anxiously over the surface of her yoyo, and turns her gaze to Aquaria. "We have to get closer to her. Come on."

She doesn't wait for Chat Noir's response before darting out into the gardens, headed towards the fountain at a spring. Chat Noir follows, as always, and they both manage to duck behind one of the statues near the edge of the fountain a split-second before Aquaria notices them.

The stone statue rumbles ominously, cracking with the intensity of the hit. Water sloshes around them, drenching their feet and moving fast enough that it almost knocks them off balance.

Ladybug braces herself against the statue, her feet unsteady and slipping on the slick stones below. "Should've kept the boots," she mutters, frowning.

" _Another_ costume change, my Lady?" Chat teases. "I don't mean to butt in, but don't you think you might be getting a bit carried away?"

Ladybug rolls her eyes, but Chat's not exactly wrong—she's currently sporting her fifth costume change in a week. Ever since she discovered that she could change her transformation more or less at will, Chat hasn't seen her in the same outfit twice. Though the basic element of the red spandex suit has stayed consistent, she's been experimenting with dozens of various add-ons: black leather bracers on her wrists, reinforced padding on her shoulders, zippered pockets much like his own. The pockets had been short lived—( _too clunky_ , she'd said, with a heavy sigh)—but the bracers had quickly become a permanent addition.

In fact, the only thing that Ladybug had been changing about her look lately were the shoes. She had gone through variations of heavy boots, dainty slippers, and shock-absorbing athletic shoes. Today was an in-between sort of day—she was wearing flexible black boots that were lightly padded to protect the soles of her feet, but apparently didn't offer much in the way of grip.

Taking care with every step, Ladybug creeps to the edge of their hiding spot and peeks around the corner. Aquaria is still standing at the edge of the garden, waiting quietly for the two superheros to make their next move.

"I think we can get a little closer," Ladybug says, motioning with her head. She dashes out again, but slows to a stop when she starts sliding on the muddy ground.

Chat Noir rushes after her, but they've already caught Aquaria's attention. The akumatized girl turns towards them, eyes glowing with magic power, and points at them with one finger.

"Down!" Ladybug says, grabbing Chat by the wrist and roughly hauling him to the ground. They both hit the pavement hard, taking cover behind an abandoned minivan at the edge of the gardens. The water rocks the vehicle, but mostly misses them.

"So, what's the plan, LB?" Chat scrambles up to his feet and then holds out one hand to help Ladybug up.

Ladybug grimaces. "Still working on it," she says tersely. She lets Chat Noir do most of the work of hauling her up, and then lightly tests her weight on one foot, cringing as she does.

"I think my ankle is broken," she mutters.

"Heal it," Chat says, taking a quick glance towards Aquaria.

Ladybug shakes her head. "I don't want to waste the energy," she says. Chat Noir wants to protest, but something about Ladybug's expression stops him. Her eyes flicker around the landscape around them, settling briefly on the fountain in the middle of the gardens, the metal fencing along the road ahead of them, the lone figure currently surrounded by a tornado of water.

Something lights up in Ladybug's eye— _a plan_ , Chat Noir thinks—but Aquaria makes her next move before Ladybug has a chance to act.

With a flick of one wrist, Aquaria sends another spray of water in their direction and Ladybug, currently distracted with some wildly convoluted plan involving the fountain and a carousel behind them, doesn't see it coming.

Chat Noir doesn't bother to shout a warning. It would be too slow, anyway. Instead he surges forward, enveloping Ladybug in his arms and spinning her away, so that he'll take the brunt of the blow.

Ladybug tenses against him—the movement caught her off guard—but she grips his arms tightly when she realizes what he's done. As for Chat...

He's always been good at physics. He knows that water can hit as hard as concrete if it's going fast enough. Still, he'd somehow never imagined what it would be like to get hit square in the back with water moving at that kind of speed. He feels like he's bit hit by a truck, and it knocks both of them flying.

It feels like he's been hit by a truck, and it knocks both of them flying.

They land again in a sprawl of limbs, but this time Chat isn't getting up.

"Are you okay?" Ladybug gasps out, sounding frantic.

"Not really," Chat Noir says tensely, but he still flashes her the biggest smile he can manage. Ladybug does not look convinced. He's pretty sure that some of his ribs are broken. "Just... give me a minute."

Ladybug's brow furrows with concern. But she presses her mouth into a line, nods sharply, and turns her attention back to the battle at hand.

She doesn't have much time to think, so she doesn't. With no idea of what the universe will give to her, she holds out one hand and mutters, "Lucky Charm."

A block of soft white metal falls into Ladybug's hand, fizzing and smoking where it sits in her palm.

Ladybug stares at it blankly, obviously confused. Chat's eyes widen when he realizes what it is.

"Throw it!" he shouts—or tries to, anyway. His ribs don't really feel like cooperating with breathing, and every word is a battle. "At the water!"

Ladybug is still confused, but she trusts Chat Noir without question. The brick soars the the air, thrown with more force than any normal human could manage, and collides against Aquaria's stomach with a _smack_. It falls to the ground, still sizzling, and lands with a splash into the standing water at the girl's feet.

Aquaria watches curiously. Ladybug would have too, if Chat Noir hadn't wrenched her back, attempting to shield her body with his own.

The hissing grows quieter for a moment, until Ladybug almost thinks that it has stopped.

The huge explosion that rattles the gardens is something of a shock to her. She swears for a moment that she can feel the ground trembling beneath her feet, and her ears are ringing. The akumatized girl lets out a shrill scream, and Ladybug cranes her head to survey the damage.

The girl is wide-eyed and terror-struck, but alive. For a moment she lays wordlessly on the ground where she fell, eyes darting between Ladybug and the scorched spot where the explosion occurred. Then, making up her mind, she makes a large, swooping gesture with one arm. The waters of the Seine rush up to her and sweep her away, and the girl vanishes beneath the murky waters.

If she surfaces, Ladybug doesn't see where.

She takes a few steps out into the street, wincing whenever she puts weight on her right ankle. She lingers near the edge of the water, scanning the surface carefully.

"What was that?" she asks softly.

"Sodium," Chat explains from behind her. "It explodes in water.

Ladybug sighs heavily, and leans against a toppled vendors cart.

"We should," she begins, sounding weary. "We should follow her."

Chat Noir glances at her, then in the direction of the retreating villain. "I don't think either of us is in any state to keep fighting right now," he says.

Ladybug grits her teeth. "She's going to get away."

"We'll get her next time," Chat says. He manages to take a few steps over to Ladybug, then reaches out for her with one hand.

Ladybug back against the touch. "Miraculous Cure," she murmurs, making an unnecessary gesture with her hand as she does. Chat feels her magic wash over him, healing his ribs just enough that he can breath easily, though his chest is still tender.

Ladybug leans a little more heavily against him.

"Are you okay?" Chat asks, trying to prop her back up on her feet. But Ladybug seems entirely unable to stand under her own power, and ends up clutching at his forearms.

"Yeah," Ladybug says uncertainly. "I just... overdid it with the magic a bit. I don't think I can hold my transformation much longer." She laughs a little, shaking her head. "I don't even think I can _walk_ in this state."

Chat Noir glances around. There's no one in sight, but that doesn't mean no one's watching. With the silence that's fallen over the 16th arrondissement, he's sure that curious civilians have begun creeping towards their windows, peeking out to see whether it's safe.

Ladybug must be having much the same thought. "We should find somewhere to detransform," she says, eyes sweeping over the area.

Chat Noir spends a moment weighing his options. Ladybug, sensing that there's something on his mind, waits patiently for him to speak.

"I know a place," he finally says. "'It's not far."

* * *

Marinette sighs as she leans back against the cubicle wall, gently prodding at her right ankle. She'd used enough magic to repair the fractured bone, but not enough for it to stop hurting. She could more or less walk on it now, but it still felt sore and tender. Rubbing at it was probably doing more harm than good, honestly, but it made Marinette feel slightly less useless, and so she went on rubbing small circles against her skin.

Almost immediately after detransforming, Tikki had taken her cookies and flown off into some dim corner of the abandoned office with Chat Noir's kwami in tow. She hadn't given any other explanation than, _don't worry_ _, we won't be long,_ and so Marinette was left with little to do but wait for them to finish... whatever they were doing.

"Wonder what they're talking about," Chat says, speaking up a little so that he can be heard from the next cubicle over.

"Probably personal stuff," Marinette says. She shrugs, then realizes a moment later that he can't see the gesture. "They're like family or something."

"Oh?" Chat asks, sounding genuinely curious.

"Or something," Marinette repeats. "Tikki said that it was hard to explain in human terms, because they're..."

"Ancient godlike magical beings?"

Marinette shifts somewhat uncomfortably. "Yeah," she says.

Well, it's not like Marinette _didn't_ know that Tikki was an immortal god-creature made out of magic. It's just... a little weird to think about.

"Anyway," Marinette continues, "how did you know this office would be empty?"

"Lucky guess?" Chat offers. Marinette rolls her eyes.

"Actually," he says, his voice suddenly low and serious, "my father owns this building. Well, this part of it, anyway."

"Chat Noir—"

"I know," he says quickly. "I won't tell you who he is or anything. Just... yeah. You don't have to worry about anyone coming in here. It's been empty for years."

Marinette glances around the office with renewed curiosity. Unprompted, Chat Noir explains, "It's a sentimental thing. He's... he can attached to things, you know?" Chat Noir sighs, and she hears a rustling coming from the other cubicle, like he's shifting his position. "He's not always good at showing that he cares," Chat continues, almost bitterly, "so I guess he expresses it in weird ways sometimes."

"I see," Marinette says, for lack of anything else to say.

"I would explain more," Chat continues, "but..."

He trails off. "Identities," Marinette fills in for him.

"Yeah."

A heavy silence hangs between them. Normally Marinette enjoys these quieter moments with Chat Noir, the times when everything is calm and still and she almost feels like she can read his mind. But today it just feels tense, thick with all the lies and half-truths that are always standing between them. There are so many things she wants to ask—about his life, his family, how his father can possibly afford to own so much unused office space in the middle of Paris—but she bites her tongue.

"It might not be so bad," Chat offers hesitantly. "It would make a lot of things simpler. And you know I wouldn't tell anyone."

Marinette purses her lips. It _would_ make things easier—no more of this sitting in dark rooms, on opposite sides of a wall—and she trusts Chat with all her heart. But...

"I know you wouldn't tell on purpose," Marinette says. "There are still risks, though. Mind control, truth serum, talking in your sleep..."

"Point taken, my Lady."

"It's not because I don't trust you," she continues on hurriedly. "You _know_ that I do. More than anyone! But—"

"I know."

Marinette exhales slowly and lets her eyes flutter shut. She slumps down a little more where she sits, her fingers curling into loose fists on the floor.

She knows it's the right decision. The safest choice for both of them.

She still doesn't like it.

"I saw your interview on the Ladyblog," she says instead, eager to change the subject.

Chat Noir laughs a little, and Marinette can imagine the huge, toothy grin he's probably sporting over there. "Yeah?" he says. "I was very convincing, wasn't I?"

"It was a very heartfelt plea for M. Haprèle's release," Marinette acknowledges. "It doesn't seem to have worked, though."

"You don't know that yet," Chat says, optimistic as ever. "Besides, I've heard that an anonymous benefactor is paying his legal fees."

Marinette only scowls. "I don't know what good a lawyer is going to do when they haven't even set a trial date yet," she mutters.

"These things take time, Ladybug," Chat Noir says. "But it's all going to work out in the end. I promise."

"And while we wait, an innocent man is sitting in high-security jail," Marinette grumbles. She sinks down even further against the cubicle wall. "I still think we should just break him out of there."

Chat chuckles. "I'm serious!" Marinette snaps.

Chat takes a moment to stifle his laughter. "I know," he says, once he's regained his composure. "You just—you sound different when you're not transformed."

"Do I?"

"You do," Chat says. "Do you look different too?"

Marinette shrugs again. "I don't think so," she says. "But people who know me—civilian me, I mean—have looked Ladybug right in the eyes in not recognized who I am. So I guess I must look different to them."

"Yeah," Chat agrees. After a beat, he adds, "Of course, I'm sure you look just as beautiful either way."

It's exactly the kind of hopeless flirtation that she would expect out of Chat Noir, but Marinette feels a faint blush rise up on her cheeks all the same. "Well, you sure didn't getting any suaver when you detransformed," she says, and despite everything her word still come out a little bit flustered.

"Meow-ch, my Lady," Chat Noir says, but he hardly sounds offended at all. "That was harsh."

Marinette sighs a little, and leans her head back against the wall.

"It was," she agrees softly.

If Marinette were to be perfectly honest with herself, she would have to admit that Chat Noir's flirting did have its charms. What girl doesn't liked being lavished with praise every now and again?

But it's easier to write him off than to take it seriously. For one thing, she isn't interested in him like that. For another, it seems more like a big game to him than any genuine affection. It's all clever wordplay and over-the-top one-liners. Silly play-acting where Chat Noir has cast himself in the leading role. It's not like he's about to start whispering sweet-nothings in her ear...

Not that Marinette would ever imagine anything of the sort, of course. Nope, definitely not, that would be ridiculous, Chat Noir would _never_ —

"Is everything okay?" Chat Noir asks, voice low and soft and tender in a way that is not currently helping Marinette's overactive imagination. "You got kind of quiet."

Marinette leaps up to her feet. "I'm fine!" she says quickly. "Just fine! But I—uhh—just remembered that there's somewhere I'm supposed to be right now!"

"Oh," Chat says. "Okay."

"Don't look!" Marinette says, as she leaves the safety of her cubicle to look for Tikki. Then she pauses in place a moment, suddenly feeling a spike of anxiety in her chest.

"I JUST REMEMBERED THAT THERE'S SOMEWHERE I'M SUPPOSED TO BE RIGHT NOW!" she screeches.

* * *

At five minutes past the hour, Alya isn't really concerned. Marinette, after all, is _always_ late. And it's not like Alya showed up exactly on-time either.

At fifteen past, she's starting to roll her eyes, but it's still nothing unexpected. Marinette will be Marinette, and Alya loves her for it, flaws and all.

But when Marinette finally bursts into the library, red-faced and frazzled and forty-seven minutes late, Alya has to admit that this is becoming a bit of a problem.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Alya," Marinette gasps out, still huffing and puffing. She shuffles across the library to Alya's table, drawing curious glances from the other patrons as her boots squelch loudly on the tile. "There was this akuma—two, actually, can you even believe it?—I mean, of course you can, you were probably there—but anyway, all the roads were _crazy_ —and the crowds—and I—"

"It's okay, Marinette," Alya cuts her off. Though her words are forgiving, her voice is clipped and her smile is tight. "I understand. Let's just get started, okay?"

Marinette's expression falters. "Yeah," she says, swallowing nervously and nodding her head a few times. She slides silently into a chair next to Alya, then quietly gets her study materials out of her bag.

While Alya is trying (and failing) to convince herself that she's not mad about Marinette's chronic lateness, Marinette's thoughts are occupied by something else altogether. Or rather, _someone_ else altogether.

Try as she might, Marinette can't get Chat Noir out of her head.

Feelings that once seemed so simple and straightforward have suddenly become unbearably complicated, as if someone had decided to come and re-wire her heart. Chat Noir was her partner and her best friend. Emphasis on _friend_. Only now she was starting to have weird thoughts about his goofy smiles and his kind heart and his leather-clad biceps—

Marinette feels her face start to heat up. Now _that's_ a dangerous train of thought.

Okay. So maybe Chat Noir is— _objectively speaking—_ kind of attractive. That doesn't have to mean anything, though! Alya is also— _objectively—_ very attractive, and there's absolutely no romantic tension between them. Knowing that someone is attractive is not the same as _being attracted_ to them.

Besides, Chat Noir is a total cheeseball, and it's not like he's _really_ in love with her. It's just infatuation! He's just in love with the idea of being in love. In fact, he's probably going to get over her any day now...

That thought reassures her for about three seconds.

"Hey Alya?" she asks abruptly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think Chat Noir is hot?"

Alya shoots Marinette a quizzical look, and Marinette ducks her head, embarrassed. But after a moment of contemplation, Alya finally answers, "Yeah, I guess so."

Marinette sighs with relief.

Alya turns her attention back to her notebook. She taps her pen against the table a few times, contemplative, before she adds without looking up, "Not as hot as Ladybug, though."

Marinette chokes a little. Alya, still looking at her notes, doesn't notice her reaction. She continues on, almost off-handedly, "I mean, have you seen her legs? It should be illegal to have legs that nice. And her _butt—_ "

"OkayI'msorryIasked," Marinette says, all in one breath.

Alya laughs at that, drawing more glances from the other students in the library. "Come on," she teases. "You don't see it?"

"I've never looked," Marinette says, still red-faced and staring very pointedly at her history textbook. "But now that you mention it, yes, I'm pretty sure Ladybug is at least as attractive as Chat Noir is. More attractive, actually. It's not even close."

Marinette realizes that she's started to get rambly again, but Alya doesn't complain. If anything, she seems distinctly less annoyed than she was before. She flashes her bestie a lopsided grin and all previous grievances are—for the moment, at least—forgotten.

"Damn straight," Alya says, still grinning. "Now, can you remind me who Jacques de Molay was?"

* * *

Nathalie Sancoeur is as heartless as her name.

Adrien knows this. He's known this for nearly as long as he's known Nathalie.

But he also knows that Nathalie doesn't do anything just for show. She's not trying to impress anyone with her icy apathy, she just... doesn't have time for emotions. Her coldness is born out of an impatience for anything that's inefficient, not out of any inherent cruelty. If someone had told Adrien that Nathalie was secretly a robot, he would've believed it.

His father might be a fashion genius, but Nathalie's the one who keeps his empire running. If you wanted to get something done, then Nathalie was the one to ask.

Adrien takes a deep breath, then pushes open the door.

"Hey, Nathalie?" he asks sweetly, a fake smile plastered all over his face.

Nathalie takes one glance at him, stern-faced as always, and then looks back to her computer. "This is about M. Haprèle," she guesses.

Adrien immediately drops the act. "How did you know?"

"Other than the stack of bills delivered to us by his lawyers?" Nathalie asks. Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded biting, but Nathalie sounds almost bored. Adrien flushes slightly and Nathalie carries on her business as usual, eyes still glued to the computer screen. "I assume you haven't told your father."

"I... uh... no," Adrien admits. "But the money—"

"Is in your name," Nathalie acknowledges. She pauses a moment to type something on her keyboard, then pushes it aside to look directly at Adrien.

Adrien's heart sinks. But instead of admonishing him, Nathalie asks, "So, what do you want?"

"Help?" Adrien asks, trying not to wince as he does. Nathalie does not seem impressed.

"Okay, I know this is all going to sound a little crazy," he continues, talking noticeably faster than normal, "but Chloé Bourgeois basically admitted to me that her father has been bribing the police, and the reason that M. Haprèle was arrested in the first place was some kind of political thing—I don't really understand it, actually—but anyway, I know this girl from school, Alya Césaire, who runs the Ladyblog, and I think she could really help fix things if she had a chance. But she hasn't been able to get an interview—um, at least that's what Nino says—and I was thinking..."

He trails off, suddenly too embarrassed to ask. Nathalie seems to understand anyway.

"You're asking me to use your father's connections to help a teenage journalist write an exposé about M. Haprèle and reveal the mayor's corruption," she says flatly.

"...yes?"

"And you thought I would agree to this... why, exactly?"

Adrien's expression grows strained. "Out of the goodness of your heart?" he tries.

"That's not going to work," Nathalie says, matter-of-fact, turning back to her computer. For a moment the room is silent save for her typing. "Bourgeois is an idiot, but he's been in politics for a long time. One hit piece is not going to stop him."

"Oh," Adrien says, trying and failing to hide his disappointment.

"But it could turn public opinion against him," Nathalie continues, in the same uninterested monotone. "Nothing official will ever come of it, but it could be enough to cost him the election. Now tell me why you'd rather trust this to a fifteen-year-old child than a real reporter?"

"Alya is a real reporter!" Adrien says quickly. "The Ladyblog has the most consistent coverage of akuma-related incidents—I mean, she does _tons_ of research, there's no one in the city who knows more about this stuff than she does. She takes it _really_ seriously!"

Nathalie arches a single brow. Adrien sighs and hangs his head.

"Also because she's a friend," he admits.

Nathalie shakes her head slightly but says, "I'll see what I can do."

Adrien's face lights up. "Really?"

Nathalie shrugs half-heartedly. "I'm a Socialist," she says.

"Thank you, Nathalie!" Adrien says. He rushes forward to hug her, but thinks better of it at the last minute. Coughing awkwardly, he pulls his arms back and says, "Thanks again," in the most dignified voice he can manage.

Nathalie, for her part, looks completely unfazed.

Adrien decides he should leave before he embarrassed himself anymore. He backs out of Nathalie's office, throwing open the door hastily and stepping out into the hall...

...and right onto his father's foot.

"Adrien," Gabriel says, sounding almost surprised to see his own son.

(Not that there's anything nearly that surprising about it. He _does_ live here, after all.)

"Father," Adrien says nervously. He takes several wobbly steps backward, holding the door open to let Gabriel into the room. But instead of stepping inside, Gabriel lingers in the doorway.

Adrien glances towards Nathalie, wondering how much of their previous conversation she will reveal to him. But Nathalie has the same empty expression she always has.

"Sir, you're scheduled for a meeting with Mlle Beauréal in half an hour on the other side of the city," Nathalie says briskly.

"Cancel it," Gabriel says. "I got held up with some business in the 16th arrondissement."

Adrien pauses a moment and exchanges an uneasy glance with Nathalie. His father's assistant, normally so cold and placid, falters for a split-second.

"Of course, sir," she says. Her smooth tone doesn't betray even the slightest hint of the emotion that briefly flickered across her face. Enviously, Adrien wonders how she manages it.

"Cancel the rest of my appointments for today while you're at it," Gabriel says. "I'm going to spend the evening working from home."

"Consider it done," Nathalie says. Gabriel turns to leave—apparently to go back to work—without so much as another word to his son.

"Um—father?" Adrien dares to ask. Gabriel pauses in place. "You didn't happen to get caught up with that akuma incident, did you?"

Gabriel scoffs. "No," he says, barely even glancing in Adrien's direction. "You needn't concern yourself with that."

Adrien bites down on his cheek, and Gabriel sweeps out of the room. "Well, forgive me for being worried about you," he mutters under his breath.

Gabriel pauses again, but this time he turns his full attention to his son. "What was that, Adrien?" he asks, looking him straight in the eye.

Adrien feels a flash of fear somewhere in his chest, and a part of him wants to immediately apologize for sassing his father.

But another part of him is strangely angry. So he lifts his chin defiantly and repeats, slow and clear, "Forgive me for being worried about you, sir."

Gabriel hesitates a moment, seeming shocked. Adrien braces himself for the lecture that's sure to come, grip tightening nervously on the door. But instead of snapping at him, Gabriel smirks slightly.

"Your mother had a stubborn streak too," he says fondly.

Then Gabriel disappears down the hall, barreling into his office and letting the door swing shut with a heavy _thud_ behind him.

As soon as the door closes, Nathalie mutters a few choice curse words under her breath. Adrien whirls around at her, shocked, but she's regained her composure by then.

"I forgot it was the anniversary," she says calmly. She spends a moment typing furiously, then her fingers suddenly still.

She looks hesitant for a moment, like she's debating whether or not to speak. Finally, she says, "I can also cancel your tutoring lessons for the rest of the day," she offers, voice perfectly level. It's only from years of practice that Adrien can tell she's nervous—the way her gaze becomes unfocused and slightly cross-eyed.

"Thanks, Nathalie," he says, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. "But I think the distraction might be nice today."

Nathalie nods curtly. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Adrien turns to leave, but Nathalie stops him before he's quite made it out of the hallway. "One more thing," she calls out. "This friend of yours—do you know her email address?"

* * *

When Marinette finally slinks home from Alya's, it's pitch black outside and uncomfortably chilly. She pulls her pea coat tighter around her form, and curses herself for wearing such thin leggings in the middle of February.

Part of her is tempted to transform into Ladybug, just for the added warmth from whatever magical cold-repelling material her costume is made out of. But she and Tikki are both still pretty low on energy after that dismal fight, so she just shivers through the rest of the walk home.

The first thing she notices when she slips back into her family's apartment is that it's blazing hot inside. A soft sigh of relief escapes Marinette as she begins to shed her winter clothes.

The second thing she notices is her parents. They are sitting together on the couch in the living room, watching her silently with matching looks of worry tinged with disapproval.

Marinette freezes in place, one winter glove slid halfway off of her hand. "Maman," she says nervously. "Papa. I thought you would be in bed by now."

"Marinette," her mother says, voice pained. "Is there something that you need to tell us about?"

 _Yes_ , Marinette thinks to herself.

"N-no?" Marinette stutters nervously, twisting her gloves in her hands.

Mme Cheng and M. Dupain glance at each other.

"What happened today, sweetie?" her mother asks, turning back to her. "You just disappeared."

Marinette's eyes go wide, suddenly remembering.

* * *

Marinette doesn't usually work in the bakery, but when they're especially busy, her parents will ask her to cover the register while they work in the back. That day, both M. Dupain and Mme Cheng were frantically scrambling to finish two dozen custom orders for Valentine's Day while Marinette sat in the front, selling cupcakes and _pommes d'amour_ to a steady stream of pre-holiday customers.

The first sign that something's wrong is a dull ache low in her stomach. Marinette's first instinct is to write it off— _too many c_ _ookies_ , she tells herself.

But the feeling doesn't go away. It spreads, from her stomach to her chest to her fingertips, until every cell of her body is thrumming with nervous energy.

Papillon is up to something. She doesn't know how she knows—but she _know_ _s._ Every fiber of her being is somehow keyed into it, attuned to some kind of bizarre Miraculous wavelength that she doesn't quite understand.

When her phone buzzes not even a minute later, Marinette can already guess what the message will be.

 _AKUMA NEAR TROCADÉRO_ , reads Alya's text. _I MIGHT BE LATE_.

"Hey, Papa?" Marinette calls out nervously. "I, uh, have to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back?"

* * *

"Oops?" Marinette says. The worried lines on her parents' faces just get deeper.

"Marinette," says her father gently, "you know you can tell us anything, right?"

Guilt floods Marinette. "Oh, Papa," she says. She takes a few steps over to the couch and sinks down into a seat next to him. "I know."

"You've been very... forgetful, lately," her mother says. Her parents exchange another Look. "Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell us?"

 _No_ , Marinette thinks. She's always been honest with her parents, always trusted them with everything. It would be so easy to tell them now. To confess everything—about Tikki and Chat Noir and how _hard_ it is sometimes, trying to balance being and superhero and a student and a friend.

But she can't, of course. She trusts her parents, but they'd be Papillon's first targets if her secret identity ever slipped out, and she can't afford _any_ risk. So Marinette presses her lips together and forces a small smile.

"There's nothing," she lies.

* * *

Here is the inherent dilemma of Marinette's fourteen-year-old existence: she hates liars, but she is always lying to everyone.

And here is the the dilemma of Alya's: she loves Ladybug, but she might love the truth a little bit more.

Alya was raised on superhero stories. She'd eagerly devoured every tidbit she could find as a kid, gleefully following the adventures of London's White Hart and Shanghai's Azure Dragon and, of course, Paris's own Cygnette. Many of her free hours were wasted away on internet forums, overanalyzing every video clip or photograph that the community could get their hands on. Superheroes were _cool_.

And she does love Ladybug—loves the way she's cool under pressure, her sassy one-liners, her _really_ nice legs.

But Alya's an adult now. Well—not legally, of course, but whatever, close enough. Things are different. This is not an internet chat room populated by giggly ten-year-olds. She runs a serious blog that thousands of people trust as a reliable source of news. She _pays bills_ for the Ladyblog's server space.

A younger Alya may have been content with blindly admiring superheroes from afar, but Alya isn't a little kid anymore. This isn't some kind of game, or adventure story. The threat that Papillon presents is real, and frankly terrifying.

The people of Paris deserve answers. But all they ever get are secrets and more secrets.

This is what keeps Alya up until two in the morning:

Nobody knows who Ladybug is.

Okay, you say. Sure, that's normal. Secret identities are as old as superheroes themselves. It's safer that way, right?

And somehow Alya always ends up circling back to the same question: safer for _who?_

Nobody knows who Ladybug is. That's worked out plenty well for these past five months, but Alya has a cynical side, and she sees too many ways it could all go wrong. Ladybug is a rouge agent—she takes no orders and answers to no one. If she has a plan—and that's a big _if_ —she's not sharing it.

There's no accountability in a system like that. Alya trusts Ladybug, she really does—but there are two million people living in Paris. Blind trust and gut feelings aren't good enough when there are that many lives on the line. There has to be a _system_ , checks and balances, some kind of backup plan. How can you rely on a single teenage girl to save your city when she won't even tell you her name?

And, as much as Alya hates to admit it, D'Argencourt and his crowd have a point. Papillon is a huge threat to Paris, and leaving nothing but a couple of costumed vigilantes to deal with him is just asking for trouble.

She's still rolling these thoughts over in her mind when her phone lights up. Alya rolls over in her bed and fumbles for it, squinting at the too-bright screen in the darkness.

 _Are you interested in covering the Haprèle case on your blog?_ is the subject line of the very interesting email Alya receives at two in the morning on that otherwise uninteresting Thursday. Er, Friday. Whatever.

The body of the email is blank, which sets off alarm bells in Alya's mind, but the address looks legit— _sancoeur at gabriel dot fr_ , and it takes Alya less than a minute to verify that it's Nathalie Sancoeur's real email address. So she shoots back a quick reply— _(yes, I'm interested_ , is the full text of her response)—and ten minutes later Nathalie has sent back a list of very careful instructions.

Alya skims over them, then sends another message back: _why are you helping me?_

Nathalie takes twenty-two minutes to reply. When she finally does, her answer is equally brief:

 _I'm a Socialist._

Well, then. Fair enough.

* * *

Bright and early on the morning of February the 14th, Alya is still contemplating Nathalie's words. She has the email practically memorized by now, but she keeps checking it on her phone anyway, half-expecting that there will be something new, some previously missed detail hiding between the lines of text.

Meanwhile, Marinette is agonizing over the small detail that today is _Valentine's Day!_ Somehow, in-between crimefighting and studying for the history test and helping out in the bakery, her overworked brain did not make the connection between the pink, heart-shaped sprinkles that have taken over her parent's bakery and the fact that the world's favorite romantic holiday was just around the corner.

"I can't believe I forgot about Valentine's Day!" Marinette says, wringing her hands. "And I didn't get anything for Adrien! Now some other girl is going to swoop in and steal—"

"Mm-hmm," Alya agrees sleepily. She spares a quick glance at Marinette—who, for all her complaining, actually looks absolutely stunning today in a very flattering pink A-line dress dotted with white hearts—and wonders whether it was pure dumb luck that she ended up dressed so appropriately for the holiday she apparently forgot all about.

"—and thirteen cats! Black cats! And I'll live in a creaky haunted house at the end of—"

"What is with you and cats?" Alya interrupts, shaking her head. "Anyway, you can stop freaking out—I got you something."

Alya shoves a plastic bag full of art supplies at Marinette, who freezes mid-meltdown and stares at the gift, looking dumbfounded.

"This is... for me?"

"Happy Valentine's Day," Alya teases, winking. She pushes the bag into Marinette's hands. "But seriously. I had a feeling something like this might happen. If you work fast enough, you might be able to make a card for Adrien before the day ends."

Alya punctuates her comment with a wink, Marinette's face lights up with delight. "You are the _best_ , Alya!" she exclaims, bouncing in place.

"I know," Alya says dryly. "Now come on, we're going to be late to math."

The girls were not, in fact, late to their math class, but it hardly made any difference to Marinette either way. She devotes almost the entire class period to working on her valentine for Adrien. In fact, she devotes almost the entire _schoolday_ on the project, and by the time their final period rolls around, she has a stunningly pink and glitter-covered card for Adrien, complete with a confession in the form of a love poem.

(If nothing else, Marinette has style.)

Her satisfaction with the valentine, alas, does not last very long until the worry sets in.

"What if he laughs at it, Alya?" she asks anxiously. The glittery and pink heart-shaped card that seemed so nice a minute ago suddenly looks unbearably childish to Marinette. "What if he thinks it's stupid?"

"It'll be fine," Alya reassures her without looking up from her phone. "Adrien's a nice guy, he wouldn't do that to you."

"Okay," Marinette says, "but what if he still _thinks_ it? Because I know he's not the kind of guy to _say_ it, of course not, but what if the thought's still there in the back of his head and he won't say it to me because he's too kind to do that but he still thinks—"

"Calm down, Marinette," Alya says. She pats her arm. "It'll be fine."

"—and he'll think I'm some kind of crazy stalker, like a weird fangirl or something, or maybe he'll think that I just like him because his dad is rich and famous, which isn't true at all, but—"

Alya clamps one hand over Marinette's mouth.

"Marinette," she says firmly. "It'll be fine. Now quit it with the melodrama before you bust out into some cartoon physics or something."

Marinette nods silently, and Alya slowly removes her hand. "Okay, girl," she says, "I'm gonna head out. Don't you chicken out on getting that card to Adrien, though!"

Aaand the panic is back. "You're not coming with me?"

Alya holds her hands up ruefully. "Official Ladyblog business," she says. "Believe me, I wouldn't bail on you if it wasn't super important. But I have faith in you!"

Marinette is about to start rambling again, but Alya claps her hands on her shoulders and gives her a little push. "You can do it," she says. "Don't let me down."

Marinette takes a few steps forward then turns back to Alya. But Alya is already dashing off, and naturally the moment that she's disappeared from sight Marinette's jittery nerves come back in full force.

She stands in place for a moment, paralyzed with fear. But Alya is counting on her, gosh darn it, and she's not going to let her BFF down! So she takes a deep breath, lifts her chin, and forces herself to take a step forward. "Alya's right," Marinette says to herself. Another step. "Yep. Everything is going to be okay. I'm just going to walk over to Adrien and hand this over to him—"

"Hand what over?" interrupts Marinette's least favorite person.

 _Bad luck_ , Marinette thinks to herself.

She scowls and tries to pull away from Chloé Bourgeois, but not before the other girl manages to snap up her valentine. Marinette reaches over to grab it back, but Chloé artfully manages to keep the valentine just out of her grip. "Ooh, a _love letter?_ " Chloé mocks, sounding positively delighted. "To dearest Adrien. Aw, how sweet."

"Give it back, Chloé," Marinette says, seething. She holds out one hand towards the other girl.

"Your hair is like gold," Chloé reads out loud. Marinette's face grows hot. "Your eyes are vivid green. When I look at you, I want to know what you are thinking."

" _Now_ , Chloé!" she snaps.

Chloé looks at Marinette thoughtfully, pretending to think it over. Then she laughs. "Honestly, Marinette, is that the best you can do? A cutesy little love poem that sounds like it was written by a five-year-old?"

Marinette swallows. "Give it back," she says again.

"Oh, sure thing," Chloé says mockingly. Then, with deliberate slowness, she rips the Valentine in half, and then into halves again, and again and again until there is nothing left of it but tiny scraps of paper.

"Here you go," she says brightly, flicking the pieces at Marinette. They flutter through the air and land scattered at Marinette's feet. "Oh, don't look at me like that," she says, her voice as sweet as honey. "I'm doing you a favor, really. It's much less embarrassing like this."

This isn't anything new for Chloé, of course. Marinette has been enduring this kind of torment for years. Marinette's strategy had always been to shrug it off, to keep her chin lifted and not let it show when Chloé got under her skin. _Be the better person_ , as her Papa would say.

But not today.

Marinette reaches into her bag and grabs the tiny container of glitter that Alya gifted her this morning.. She uncaps it as Chloé watches, puzzled. Marinette can't resist the small smirk that creeps up on her lips as she steps forward and, with a slight flick of her wrist, coats the other girl in a shower of glitter.

"Oops," Marinette drawls sarcastically.

(Chloé uses her status as the mayor's daughter to get Marinette suspended from school for two days, but her look of shocked, sparkly horror is quite possibly the most satisfying thing Marinette has ever seen in her entire life.)

* * *

Nathalie must have pulled a _lot_ of strings to make this happen.

The prison they're keeping Haprèle in is serious business. Metal detectors, body scanners, magic circles, the works. Alya makes her way through security almost timidly, surrounded by tall guards with stern expressions. By the time they usher her into the tiny visiting room with M. Haprèle, she must have gone through six or seven different machines.

M. Haprèle is slumped over in his seat, wearing a too-large shirt and fraying pants. There are bags under his eyes, and he barely even lifts his head when Alya enters.

"M. Haprèle," Alya says, putting on her very best reporter voice. "I'm Alya Césaire, from the Ladyblog."

M. Haprèle flashes her a quick smile. "They told me," he says. "You want to do an interview?"

Alya nods. "If you don't mind."

His gaze flickers over her form. "I thought you'd be older," he says, but he doesn't sound bothered. Just tired.

Alya shrugs a little bit. "I'm good at what I do," she says. She fumbles through her bag for a moment before adding, "I, um, I'm actually in your daughter's class at school."

At this, M. Haprèle's eyes grow slightly brighter. "How is she?"

Alya doesn't answer at first. She keeps rifling through her bag until she has all her materials out and even then a moment passes before she can figure out how to answer.

"She's getting through it," she finally says. "It's hard, but she's really strong."

Another smile crosses M. Haprèle's face, sincere this time. "Thank you," he says softly.

"Shall we begin, then?" Alya asks, glancing through her notes. M. Haprèle gives a brief nod, and she starts the interview.

His answers are almost reluctant at first, short and monosyllabic. The longer the interview goes on, though, the more open he becomes. Alya would like to credit her awesome reporter skills for the change in demeanor, but she suspects that the truth is more mundane. As the minutes pass by, M. Haprèle grows wearier, and more honest. Alya starts with easy questions— _tell me about yourself_ and _where did you learn to shoot a rocket launcher—_ then builds up to more tricky questions, like _describe the circumstances that led to your akumatization_.

When her time is nearly up, Alya hesitates a moment, gathering her courage. Then she asks the question that she really wanted to ask.

"Do you remember anything about the crimes you allegedly committed while akumatized?"

He hesitates a moment. "Nothing," he says, with a strange tone of finality. "I don't remember anything."

"And you don't claim any responsibility for the crimes you committed while akumatized?"

M. Haprèle makes a huffing sound that could almost be called a laugh. "I thought you were supposed to be on my side," he says.

"I'm on the truth's side," Alya says. "So, do you?"

M. Haprèle spends another moment in thought, picking nervously at a hangnail while he does. "That wasn't me," he eventually says. "I wouldn't—I would _never_ hurt people like that. _"_

He trails off a moment, lost in thought. "That was Papillon, not me," he eventually says, voice firm.

Alya scribbles that down verbatim, and then says, "Okay, last question. Do you know why you were the only akuma victim to be targeted by the police?"

M. Haprèle smiles thinly. "I have a few guesses," he says, but declines to elaborate.

Alya doesn't push him on the subject. She's pretty sure that she knows the answer anyway.

She flips her notepad closed and moves to put away her things. "Thank you for your time, M. Haprèle," she says, inclining her head slightly at him.

"Thank you, Mlle Césaire," he says.

Alya stands up to leave, then pauses a moment. She turns back to Haprèle and leans in close to him, almost conspiratorially. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this," she vows quietly. "I promise."


	10. crowned with prosperity

Marinette sighs heavily, and contemplates taking a nap on her physics textbook.

Pros: Sleep. It's probably better to fall asleep during a library study session than in the middle of class or, heaven forbid, drifting off during a patrol.

Cons: She's barely even started on this project, and sleeping is not going to help her get it done.

With a muffled yawn, Marinette rests her head on one hand, and forces herself to re-read the chapter on electromagnetism. It's not so bad at the start, talking about electricity and lightning and paths of least resistance, but on the second page everything turns into variables and equations and Marinette feels her eyes beginning to glaze over.

She reads and re-reads the passage on Faraday cages, and with each retry the words seem to make less sense than they did before. The pitter-patter of approaching footsteps is a welcome distraction from physics, and Marinette glances up, expecting to see Alya. What she sees instead is a precariously tall stack of three-ring binders that seem to be attached to Alya's legs.

"Marinette!" she calls out, sing-songy. She drops the binders on the table between them, and they hit the surface with a resounding _thud_.

"Look at this!" Alya says, waving one arm giddily at the stack.

Marinette looks. They are pretty ordinary binders, mostly black, but occasionally more interesting colors like green or blue. One of them is red with black polka dots. They're stacked carefully near the bottom and more sloppily at the top, where a few thin binders have slid off-center and are threatening to topple off of the stack.

"This is...?" Marinette asks hesitantly.

"My research," Alya announces, gesturing at the binders with a flourish.

Marinette's eyes go wide. "Your... research?"

Alya beams and her and nods. "It feels _so_ good to finally tell you about this!" she says, clapping her hands together. "I didn't want to say anything to anyone until I was positive, but I think I've got enough evidence now. I've been working on this thing for an entire month. Well—three and a half weeks, actually—but that's not the point!"

Marinette watches her with wide, disbelieving eyes. "The point is...?" she prompts.

"The point, _ma chérie_ , is that after dozens of interviews, hours spent sifting through public records, and one hefty bribe to a police officer, I have finally finished _the_ single greatest work of my entire blogging career."

Marinette blinks a few times. "Please tell me you were joking about bribing the police," she says, a little thinly.

Alya waves off her concerns with a laugh. "Don't be like that, Marinette! That's just how journalism works," she says, still sounding giddy. "Anyway—this is _it_. This is, like, _Canard-_ level investigative journalism. Mayor Bourgeois is going to go down _in flames_."

Suddenly Marinette feels very awake indeed. "What is it—what did you find out?"

Alya flashes her a huge grin and leans in conspiratorially. " _Everything_ ," she whispers, sounding delighted.

Marinette reaches out to grab one of the binders from the top of the stack, but Alya playfully bats her hand away. "C'mon, Alya, tell me already!"Marinette protests.

Alya glances around the library, checking for eavesdroppers, then leans in close. "You know Mylène's dad?" Alya asks softly. Marinette's eyes widen. "I have _indisputable_ evidence that everyone involved in the case has ties to Mayor Bourgeois. The police, the prosecutors, the judges- _everyone_."

Nothing that Alya has said is surprising to Marinette, of course. But she feigns shock anyway. "You have proof?" she asks.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Alya pulls back from Marinette and slides into a chair. "Fifteen binders of it. Tourism is down and fear is up, so Mayor Bourgeois orchestrated this whole thing to create an illusion of safety. If he can convict Fred Haprèle, he thinks that people will have more confidence in the system."

"Will they?" Marinette asks skeptically.

"Honestly? They probably will," Alya says. She shakes her head, a dark look coming over her face. "This trial is nothing more than a carnival sideshow, but people love a good performance. And the media played right into his hands. We've been covering almost nothing but Haprèle's arrest since the news first broke."

Marinette's not really sure that she understands, but she nods along to Alya's words nonetheless.

"And it's not just that," Alya adds. "Turns out that Chloé isn't just kidding around when she threatens people with her father's power."

"Well yeah," Marinette says, "he's the _mayor_."

Alya grimaces. "I'm not just talking about preferential treatment from teachers and a free pass on misdemeanors," she explains. "Bourgeois's corruption goes way, _way_ deeper than that. There's voter fraud, millions of euros unaccounted for, financial records that mysteriously vanished. Bourgeois has half the damn city under this thumb with his dirty money."

That _is_ news to Marinette. "That's terrible," Marinette says. "You've posted about this?"

"Not yet," Alya says. "The post goes up tomorrow. First I wanted to make sure I had backup copies of everything—actually, I was hoping you could help me with that."

Well, it's certainly not going to help her with her physics project, but...

"Of course!" Marinette says. She closes her physics textbook all too gladly and smiles up at Alya.

"And then we can go celebrate!" Alya continues, beaming. "I hear there's a really great ice cream place that just opened down the street. What do you say? My treat."

Marinette's smile falters.

 _Marinette_ would love to. But Ladybug has patrol tonight.

"I can't," she says reluctantly. "I... have a thing. With my parents."

Something in Alya's expression darkens. Marinette is sure for one dreadful moment that Alya can see right through her, that she'll get angry and demand the truth.

But instead, Alya forces a wan smile. "Okay," she says. "Maybe next time."

* * *

Alya's exposé goes up on Saturday afternoon. If Marinette had to describe it in one word, that word would be _brutal_.

If Adrien had to describe it in one word, he wouldn't even be able to. He was actually, literally speechless. He'd been friends with Chloé long enough to suspect that the mayor wasn't entirely clean, but he hadn't exactly expected Alya to turn up _twenty years_ worth of shady dealings. He'd been expecting, you know, a brief piece that revealed the corruption involved in the Haprèle case—not a scathing indictment of everything the mayor had ever been involved in. Adrien wouldn't even know where to begin.

Fortunately, Ladybug seemed plenty happy to do most of the talking for him.

"Mayor Bourgeois should be the one in prison, not M. Haprèle," she says. She throws out her yoyo and swings over to the next rooftop with unnecessary force. Chat Noir follows silently, moving with his usual catlike grace. "What an awful, _terrible_ , two-faced liar—"

Ladybug cuts herself off mid-sentence, making a high-pitched sound of frustration. "I hope they put him away for a long time," she finishes.

Chat Noir is... less hopeful about that.

"The corruption goes a lot deeper than just Bourgeois," he says solemnly. "I don't think they'll be able to do anything for a while."

Ladybug scrunches up her nose in disgust, but doesn't disagree. "That man is awful! And his daughter— _ugh_. Have you ever met her?"

Chat Noir's pulse quickens. He hates lying to Ladybug, but he has a feeling that she doesn't actually want to know that Chloé is his alter-ego's closest friend.

"We've met," he says, deciding to keep it as vague as possible.

"I won't tell you how I know her," Ladybug continues, "because, you know. Identities. But she's spent _years_ making things as hard as she can for me. Civilian-me, I mean. I've never met her as Ladybug."

Adrien suspects that this would be a bad time to tell her that Chloé adores Ladybug, so he keeps his mouth firmly shut.

"They're just—"

Ladybug cuts off abruptly, obviously very emotional about the entire situation. Chat Noir's not sure he understands, but he steps forward and sets a hand lightly on her arm. That seems to calm her enough that she can continue.

"They're absolutely awful," she says, gathering herself back together. "Chloé bullies people just for the fun of it. And she can get away with it because her father's the mayor, and anytime I ever try to fight back—"

Ladybug stops again, and rubs her palms roughly at her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says quickly. She forces out an awkward laugh. "I should—should pull myself together, before Papillon tries to akumatize _me_ or something!"

That's a strangely horrifying thought. Ladybug, who is so strong and brave and confident, falling victim to one of Papillon's akumas?

"I'm sorry," Chat Noir says.

"Gosh, how embarrassing," Ladybug says. She's trying to sound flippant but failing, and something about it makes Chat's heart break. "Now you know that Ladybug is just a normal girl who gets bullied sometimes."

She starts to pull away from him, but Chat tugs her closer instead. She's surprised, at first, when he pulls her into a hug. But after a moment's hesitation she melts into his arms.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"Don't be ridiculous, _chaton_ ," Ladybug says, her voice slightly muffled. "It has nothing to do with you."

Chat Noir only holds her tighter.

Ladybug allows them to linger there for a few moments, perhaps a sign of just how upset she really is. But all too soon, she's back in full superhero mode, and she gently pulls away. She puts on one of her cocky Ladybug smiles—all mischievous eyes and smug confidence and unwavering sureness—and says, "Alright, we've got to get moving again. Aquaria's not going to find herself, after all."

Chat Noir bites back the obvious response to that: they're probably not going to find Aquaria either.

Aquaria's first appearance back in February had made quite a splash, and he and Ladybug had been on the lookout for her ever since. But Aquaria, in an unexpected twist, had yet to show up again. She'd vanished into the Seine that day, and so far nobody had seen her again.

It left Adrien with... mixed feelings about the situation.

On the one hand: Paris was safe. With Aquaria's disappearance, akuma incidents in the city had abruptly ceased, and Paris almost felt normal again.

On the other: Aquaria was still out there somewhere. Irène Delacourt had been missing for three weeks, and Papillon was to blame. The longer she stayed out of sight, the more Adrien began to wonder what had happened to the woman. He was developing a niggling fear that she might not _ever_ reappear again...

He wasn't sure that was something they were ready to deal with.

"And there's our favorite Chevalier," Ladybug mutters, motioning with her head. Chat Noir glances down towards street level, and sees a familiar black-armored figure striding down the middle of the road. The others out in the street gawk at him openly, and a few try to surreptitiously snap pictures of him with their cell phones.

"That's the third time this week," Ladybug says, shaking her head.

"He must have figured out our patrol routes," Chat Noir muses quietly.

"Time to change things up, I guess," Ladybug says. "As if our lives weren't hard enough already."

Chat watches the Chevalier for a moment and, as if sensing that he's being watched, the Chevalier looks up. Their eyes meet—or Chat supposes that they do, at least, since the man does wear a helmet that conceals his face—and Chat quickly looks away.

"Maybe he's not all that bad," Chat offers tentatively. "A little extreme, sure, but maybe he could help us. It wouldn't be a bad thing to have more allies, right?"

Ladybug looks at him like he's crazy.

"No," she says, in a tone brooks no argument. "I'm not compromising with someone who thinks that akuma victims are collateral damage. That's not how we work."

"Right," Chat Noir says quickly, feeling embarrassed. "Of course."

She shakes her head. "Let's divert our patrol route to the south, anyway," she suggests. "Keep following the Seine. Aquaria's bound to turn up eventually."

Adrien can only hope that she's right.

* * *

Aquaria doesn't turn up.

At the one-month mark since Aquaria's disappearance, Alya makes a note of it on the Ladyblog. She throws together a quick post speculating on what could account for Papillon's recent absence, but doesn't dwell on it for very long. She's too cynical to think that Papillon is gone for good, and besides, she's already moved on to her Next Big Thing.

The Bourgeois exposé was huge. The Ladyblog's readership is up by 110%, and there's a fresh flood of emails sitting in her inbox—some congratulatory, some accusatory, some vaguely threatening. Everyone and their mother is offering opinions on how it's going to affect the election, but as far as Alya's concerned this is just the tip of the iceberg.

Mayor Bourgeois, after all, is not the only politician in Paris.

Armand D'Argencourt looks underwhelming on television (in Alya's opinion, anyway) but has a commanding presence in person. He is hugely tall, perpetually stern-faced, and looks right at home in an office full of real antique swords.

Alya half reaches out towards one of them, but D'Argencourt stops her with a look.

"They're very sharp," he warns her. "Best keep your hands to yourself."

Alya smiles sheepishly at him. "Right," she says. "Shall we begin, then?"

D'Argencourt looks at her somewhat skeptically. It's a familiar reaction to Alya. Everyone in Paris knows about the Ladyblog, of course, but not that many know about the _Ladyblogger_. Alya suspects that when Adrien pitched this meeting to D'Argencourt, he hadn't realized that the Ladyblog was run by a fifteen-year-old girl.

"Go ahead," D'Argencourt says, still eying her somewhat suspiciously.

Alya flips her notepad open to her list of questions and clicks her pen a few times. "Have you heard the recent allegations against Mayor Bourgeois?" she begins. She likes to start with the easy ones.

"They are very unfortunate," D'Argencourt says. "If elected, I will strive to make sure that any and all akumatized individuals are treated fairly by the legal system."

Alya twirls her pen in her fingers. "Uh huh," she murmurs thoughtfully. "Do you believe that Fred Haprèle—or any of the other akumatized people, for that matter—should be held responsible for their actions while akumatized?"

D'Argencourt is completely unfazed. "I believe that's for the court the decide," he says, ever the politician.

Alya smirks slightly and jots down a few notes. "And you also have some beliefs about resident superheroes Ladybug and Chat Noir, right?" she prompts gently.

"I do," D'Argencourt confirms.

"I have you on record as saying, quote 'We absolutely cannot trust the safety of Paris to two untested and untrained teenagers,'" Alya continues. "Yet the majority of Parisians still believe that Ladybug and Chat Noir are our best defense against Papillon. Do you have a response to that?"

D'Argencourt smile at this question, looking almost smug. "Ladybug can rebuild buildings," D'Argencourt begins, reciting the words cleanly and carefully, as though he'd prepared this spiel well in advance. "But can she rebuild economies? Tourism in the city has dwindled away to nothing. Businesses are closing. People are fleeing the city—half the members of the National Assembly have found excuses to abandon their posts. While I admire all the work Ladybug has done on behalf of Paris, clearly this is not a viable solution to our problem."

"And what is your plan for dealing with Paris's faltering economy?"

"Papillon is a terrorist," D'Argencourt says boldly, "and should be treated as such. He is threatening the lives and livelihoods of the French people, and we need to take military action against him."

Alya taps her pen against her notepad a few times, but declines to write anything down. "And just what kind of military action are you suggesting?"

This question earns her a strange look from D'Argencourt, who perhaps did not expect this line of questioning from a fifteen-year-old girl. Alya smiles sheepishly at him and adds, "I mean, Papillon isn't really known for fighting his own battles."

"Our number one priority is to keep the people of Paris safe," D'Argencourt eventually answers, eyes narrowed. "So unfortunately that means most of our work will be to take action against Papillon's proxies, just as Ladybug and Chat Noir currently do. Every effort will be made to use nonlethal methods against akumatized individuals."

Alya nods along to this, still smiling a little to herself. "So, just to be clear," she says slowly, "what you're saying is that you think you're more qualified to handle Papillon than Ladybug and Chat Noir, even though you don't have a Miraculous, or any kind of significant magic power at your disposal?"

D'Argencourt gives her another strange look, but this time there is an amused twinkle in his eye.

"You know," he says, laughing a little, "when Adrien proposed this meeting to me, he gave me the impression that you would be on my side."

"I'm on the truth's side," Alya says sweetly. "So, monsieur?"

* * *

"You're sulking again," Plagg says.

Adrien, still spinning in his desk chair, says, "I am not."

Plagg rolls his eyes rather dramatically, but the gesture is lost on Adrien, who isn't even looking at him.

"You are," Plagg repeats. "What's got you this time, hmm? Your father again? Doesn't he come back from Milan soon?"

Adrien shakes his head. "Not 'til the end of March," he mutters. "And that's not why I'm sulking."

"Ah-ha! So you admit to it," Plagg says triumphantly. Adrien just huffs and keeps spinning away. "Ladybug, then?" Plagg guesses.

Adrien touches his feet to the floor, slowing to a stop. "It's D'Argencourt," he admits, slinking down even lower in his seat.

"Fencing?"

"Politics." Adrien gestures with his head towards the computer screen and, reluctantly, Plagg flies over to read it. He scans the Ladyblog's most recent headline when an empty expression.

 _D'ARGENCOURT_ _SAYS_ _LADYBUG AND CHAT NOIR_ _SHOULD_ _LET ADULTS HANDLE_ _AKUMA_ _SITUATION_ , it reads.

"Oh my," Plagg says, faintly amused. "Those pesky socialists always want the government to control everything! But lucky you, he won't be able to do much about it, even if he _does_ get elected mayor."

"But he's right, isn't he?" Adrien says despairingly. "We're in over our heads. Ladybug is amazing, but I don't think she's any older than I am. We're just kids, we're not..."

Adrien trails off. He wrings his hands a few times just for good measure.

"You are being dramatic," Plagg accuses him dryly, "and also a total pushover."

"A pushover?!" Adrien objects, sounding legitimately offended. He sits up a little straighter in his chair and shoots Plagg a withering look.

"Yes, a pushover," Plagg repeats. "Honestly, Adrien. D'Argencourt has no idea what he's talking about. Have a little bit of faith in yourself."

"But I—"

"Seriously," Plagg interrupts. "Do you really think your Miraculous would be more use in someone else's hands? D'Argencourt himself, perhaps?"

Adrien waffles. "I don't know," he says, sounding unsure. "Maybe?"

Plagg grows serious. "Would you honestly trust a man like D'Argencourt with the power of destruction?"

Adrien fumbles for a moment, searching for an answer to that. "Would I trust _me_ with the power of destruction?" he counters, brow furrowing together.

Plagg rolls his eyes. "Please, Adrien," he say haughtily. "You're so soft-hearted it makes me sick. I can't think of anyone I would trust more with the power of destruction—which, coincidentally, is why you have it and not someone else."

This does not seem to reassure Adrien, who is slinking back down in his chair. He draws his knees up to his chest. "I destroyed the July Column last month," he points out, pouting. "There are people on the internet who are _still_ mad about that. Nadja Chamack won't stop reporting on it."

"You trapped a supervillain under the fallen debris," Plagg says. "Oh no. Truly, you are the terror of Paris. Much more frightening than that Papillon fellow."

Adrien is still silent, and clearly not reassured.

"I mean it," Plagg says, changing his tone. "You were chosen, Adrien. Whatever D'Argencourt and his ilk might say, there's no one more suited for this job than you."

"But what if you chose wrong?" Adrien asks glumly. He holds up his right hand, flexing his fingers. The ring looks perfectly ordinary, a plain silver band with no particular distinguishing features.

"Did you hear _anything_ I just said?" Plagg demands.

Adrien sighs and looks away. "Okay," he says slowly, "but why _me?_ Out of everyone in Paris, you can't honestly say that there wasn't _somone_ older or wiser or whatever that would have worked just as well?"

Plagg only shakes his head. "Not everyone can be trusted with nigh limitless destructive power," he drawls. "I have had hundreds and hundred of wielders. Trust me when I say that there are very few people in this world who are capable of handling this power as well as you do. Your Ladybug, for example, would not last very long."

Adrien looks taken aback. "What are you even talking about? Ladybug is _amazing!_ She's kind and generous and—"

"Limitless. Destructive. Power," the kwami repeats, pausing between each word for emphasis. Plagg's form flickers slightly, even going incorporeal for a moment as he flies over to land on Adrien's desk. "Your Lady has a good heart, but she's not _you_. She'd raze this city to the ground."

"She wouldn't."

"She would," Plagg counters. "And it goes both ways, of course. You wouldn't do very well with her powers either."

Adrien furrows his brow. "I wouldn't?"

Plagg sniffs. "No. Your heart is too soft for it. Good luck, creation, healing... it all _sounds_ nice, I know, but Tikki has... a certain ruthlessness. She would eat you alive."

Adrien doesn't really know how to respond to that, so all he manages is a quiet, "Oh."

Plagg's expression darkens. "That can be a very dangerous way of thinking, you know," he mutters bitterly. "Just because someone is _good_ doesn't mean that they can't be corrupted. Old Man Fu made that mistake once."

"He... did?"

Plagg whirls suddenly to face Adrien, looking uncharacteristically startled. "Oh—never mind that, it's not important."

Plagg turns away again, perfectly willing to let the topic drop, but Adrien's not going to relent that easily.

"Who is Old Man Fu?" Adrien asks, sliding over in his chair so that Plagg is facing him again. "What mistake did he make?"

"Just some old geezer," Plagg says, rolling his eyes overdramatically. "And it's not important."

Adrien frowns skeptically at Plagg. "It sounded kind of important."

"Well, it wasn't," Plagg says. "Speaking of important things, we need to discuss the way you treat your cheese. Now, I know it's very convenient that you've been keeping spare wedges in your backpack and your locker and your bedroom drawers, but it's just a _little_ too warm at room temperature and frankly it's ruining the texture. Have you considered building a cheese cellar?"

Adrien bites down on the inside of his cheek. "You're being evasive," he says, a little sullenly.

"Yes," Plagg agrees unapologetically. "Yes, I am. I'm glad you noticed. Normally you're not this perceptive."

"Plagg!"

Plagg lifts his head slightly to look up at Adrien, suddenly very still where he stands. "Trust me, kid," he says, "you don't want to go down this path."

The atmosphere of the room grows tense. "I deserve to know, don't I?"

"You do," Plagg agrees calmly. "I'm telling you that you don't _want_ to know."

"Plagg—"

"Oh, fine!" Plagg snaps. He leaps into the air, flying frantically in circles in his frustration. "Fu is another Miraculous user, a nosy old man that should have died a long time ago. He gave a Miraculous to someone who never should have had one, and they predictably were corrupted and it all ended very badly."

"What do you mean _corrupted?_ " Adrien asks.

"Oh, I don't know," Plagg says, a little huffy. "It's a human thing, I don't really..." He trails off when he realizes that Adrien is glowering at him, and sighs heavily. "That's what they call it when a human uses their Miraculous for evil."

"Does that happen often?"

Plagg waffles. "I wouldn't really—"

"I know you know," Adrien interrupts, "and you're just trying to protect me."

Plagg looks at Adrien then— _really_ looks—and says flatly, "You've studied history. You already know the answer."

Adrien bites down on his cheek. "Has it happened to you?"

Plagg exhales slowly. "Well," he says reluctantly. "I'm not saying it _hasn't_ happened. But I'm sure I don't remember—"

"How often?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Plagg says haughtily. "I am a _very_ old creature, you know, you can't expect me to keep track of—"

"How often?" Adrien asks again, voice firmer this time.

Plagg looks mournfully at Adrien, then curls up around himself like a cat. "About one in three," he admits, voice low.

"One in—one in _three?!_ " Adrien splutters. He falls back on his bed, wide-eyed.

"You see, this is why I didn't want to tell you," Plagg says. Adrien is still staring at him, jaw hanging open, so he adds, "Power corrupts. It's not just a saying. Miraculous power changes people, and not always for the better."

Adrien swallows. "Is it changing me?"

Plagg stills for a moment. "Yes," he says solemnly. "You know it has."

Adrien grows quiet for a moment. Plagg pauses, weighing his options, before speaking again.

"You were chosen because of your goodness," Plagg continues. "There aren't many people, young or old, that can bear a power like this without giving in to the temptation to misuse it. Even the kindest souls have dark urges."

"Do you think that I'll become corrupted?" Adrien asks next.

Plagg doesn't answer at first. He knew that this was coming—it _always_ comes, sooner or later—and in all his thousands of years he still hasn't figured out the best way to answer it. His gaze grows distant as he ponders the question.

"I've never met a human who couldn't be corrupted by something," he admits quietly. "We have shared a body, kitten. I have been inside your mind, and I have seen the weak places in your heart. You are only human."

Adrien's expression grows cold, closed-off. Plagg can't tell what he's thinking, but he feels a twinge of guilt about it anyway.

"I don't think you would use your powers for evil," Plagg finally answers, "but it's always a possibility. Humans often find themselves capable of terrible things when pushed hard enough."

Adrien looks away, pale-faced. "Has a Ladybug ever been corrupted?" he asks distantly.

"Of course," Plagg says. He pads over to Adrien and curls up in his lap, more cat-like than he's ever acted before. Adrien, almost reluctantly, scratches behind his ears with one hand. "Not very often, but it happens. Once every thousand years or so."

"What happens?"

"Let's just say there's a reason Tyche had such a fierce reputation among the Greeks."

"And what happened to her?"

"Adrien..."

"Please," Adrien says.

Plagg sighs, lowering his head. "Have you ever wondered," he asks very quietly, "what would happen if you used Cataclysm on a person?"

* * *

Peace in Paris lasts for six weeks. Six blissful, calm, practically normal weeks until Marinette finds herself walking home from school one day and trips over her own feet.

Well, that's not abnormal in and of itself. The gnawing pit of worry in her stomach, though...

She cracks open her purse. Tikki peeks out tentatively.

"Is it an akuma?" Marinette asks.

Tikki hesitates a moment, tilting her head slightly to one side.

"I think so," she says.

If Tikki senses anything else out of the ordinary, though, she keeps it to herself.

Marinette, for her part, ducks into the park near her family's bakery instead of going home, and transforms under the nearby arcades. As Ladybug, the empty feeling in her stomach grows stronger, and she relies on instinct to guide her to where she needs to be.

She expects to be drawn towards water. It seemed like the natural place for Aquaria to make her appearance—somewhere on the banks of the Seine, with plenty of water at her disposal.

Instead she winds up in the northern part of the city, near Canal Saint-Martin but far from any of the city's major waterways. She hesitates on a rooftop near the canal's edge, eyes flitting around anxiously. She can sense that there's _something_ nearby... but whatever it is remains unseen.

She grips her yoyo tightly in one fist. Ladybug carefully takes a few steps backward, scanning her surroundings for any sign of trouble.

Chat Noir hasn't arrived yet. If he'd been there, perhaps his enhanced senses would have detected something—a flicker of movement, the whistling of the wind, a faint scent of ozone on the air—that Ladybug couldn't pick up on.

As it is, the blow to Ladybug's stomach catches her completely off guard.

She doesn't see where the attack came from, but it was one heck of a hit. Ladybug stumbles backward until her feet hit empty air instead of roof tiles, and she tumbles down to the ground, arms pinwheeling. She hits the street hard, the impact at the bottom sending a painful jolt down her spine, but by some miracle she manages to escape without any broken bones. At least, nothing _seems_ broken, as far as she can tell. There's a sharp pain in her chest but, she's pretty sure that's just her lungs objecting to getting all the air knocked out of them from the fall. Once the initial shock wears off, Ladybug grits her teeth and rolls up onto her feet, kneeling in a crouch and carefully searching her surroundings for any hint of Aquaria.

"Well, fancy seeing you aground here," says a voice near her ear. Ladybug lashes out in its direction before she realizes who it is.

Chat Noir knocks her yoyo away easily with one clawed hand, then takes a few hurried steps backwards away from her, holding his palms up in her direction.

"Sorry—" they both say in unison.

"You startled me," Ladybug says, at the same time Chat is saying, "I didn't mean to sneak up on you!"

A faint movement in the corner of her eye distracts Ladybug from her partner. Carefully, she turns to angle herself so that her back is to him, and Chat seems to understand her meaning and positions himself in the opposite direction.

She moves backwards slowly, until her shoulder is just barely pressing up against Chat's back. "She's out here somewhere," Ladybug says softly. "She knocked me off the roof earlier, but I didn't see how."

"Great," Chat Noir says sarcastically. "Now she's invisible, too."

The wind picks up, and Ladybug shivers.

"I know we've been calling her Aquaria," Chat Noir says casually, "but do you think there's any chance she can control more than just the water?"

Ladybug glances up nervously towards the rapidly darkening skies. "Like what?"

"Like that," Chat says.

Ladybug spares a quick look over her shoulder, and her jaw drops open at the sight.

Two months ago, they'd faced off against an akumatized girl who could conjure the winds. She could hit you with a pretty fierce gust, but her powers were otherwise relatively unimpressive. She could cook up little dust devils that scattered dirt and leaves, but nothing too disastrous.

 _This_ though. This is a real tornado.

It's easily five meters across, stretching from the black clouds in the sky to touch the ground at street level in Paris. The winds pick up as the tornado grows nearer, tearing up shrubbery and loose bricks in its path, and Ladybug watches in open-mouthed horror as it wrenches the door off of a nearby building.

"So, what should we do?" Chat Noir asks.

"Don't let it hit you," Ladybug says. She flings out her yoyo to a nearby balcony and swings herself up onto the closest rooftop. Chat Noir follows suit, vaulting up next to her, and then falling into pace behind her as she leaps from rooftop to rooftop.

The tornado trails after them, picking up roof tiles and window trellises in its path. Ladybug grimaces, then turns to her partner.

"We have to stop Aquaria before she does serious damage to this area," Ladybug says. "She can't be too far—"

She's cut off abruptly when she and Chat are both hit in the chest with another fierce gust of wind, this one coming from the opposite direction of the tornado. Chat manages to steady himself against the roof and catches Ladybug by the wrist, saving her from being knocked off a second time.

Ladybug scowls and looks in the direction of the blow. A single figure, carried aloft by the winds, sets down on a nearby rooftop.

It's not Aquaria.

The man standing before them could almost be taken for a superhero himself. He's standing tall and proud, with shimmering golden hair and straight white teeth exposed clearly for all to see in a huge grin. His costume has a majestic blue cape that billows in the wind behind him.

That cruel glint in his eye, though, is anything but heroic.

Later, Alya will name him Tempest. She won't give out his real name, even though she knows it, and she'll make a beautiful post on the Ladyblog about his tragic life story. A desperate orphan with no family, no money, no future—is it any wonder, really, that Papillon was able to prey upon those fears to turn a frightened young man into a terrifying supervillain?

Later, Marinette will read about Tempest on Alya's blog, and her heart will go out to him.

But for now, all she can see is the hatred bubbling up in him, the cold contempt in his expression as he sneers at her and Chat Noir, and Ladybug finds that she has absolutely no room for sympathy for the man standing before her.

Ladybug's grip on Chat Noir tightens and she feels suddenly calm, assessing the situation before them.

The man before them is clearly akumatized.

Now, Papillon has gone to some pretty desperate measures to steal their Miraculouses. He's akumatized people back-to-back before, as many as three in a single day. Ladybug's seen fights where the time between akumatizations was mere minutes. Maybe only seconds.

But she's never known Papillon to akumatize two people at the same time.

So where is Aquaria?

In Marinette's six-and-a-half months as Ladybug, she's never seen anyone who was akumatized become de-akumatized without her intervention. That doesn't necessarily mean it's impossible, but it doesn't seem very likely either.

Ladybug runs through her other options. If Aquaria didn't manage to fight Papillon off herself, maybe he _let_ her go. Maybe their whole supervillain relationship wasn't working out.

Maybe she was dead.

Or maybe...

Something uncomfortable is prickling at the back of her mind, so Ladybug leans in closer to Chat and whispers, "Duck."

 _Good luck_ is the only possible explanation for why that actually worked. She and Chat Noir hit the roof just a split-second before a surge of water rushes over their heads. Instead of knocking them over, it takes out Tempest, sending him flying backwards several blocks away.

Chat Noir and Ladybug both whirl around. Aquaria is standing at ground level, one hand outstretched over her head as she summons more water from the nearby canal.

"Two at once," Chat Noir breathes.

Ladybug sets her mouth in a firm line. "Stay close," she says. "Don't let them separate us."

Chat Noir, obligingly, pulls closer to her. Ladybug narrows her eyes and assesses their situation.

They're currently stuck between Aquaria and Tempest, which isn't exactly ideal. Ladybug flicks her gaze over her shoulder for just a split-second, long enough to see that Tempest hasn't yet managed to recover from his fall yet.

She turns her gaze back towards Aquaria. She's still standing near the canal, looking quite ominous under the blackened skies, thunder rumbling faintly.

"Chat," she says softly, "can you vault us to the other side of the canal?"

Chat pauses a moment to judge the distance. "It's not going to be a fun landing," he says lightly. "You sure about this?"

Ladybug doesn't answer, but he seems to understand her meaning anyway. Chat Noir grabs her by the waist, and she drapes one of her arms casually around his neck. He extends his staff, and then with a few running steps they're both flying through the air, soaring in an arc across the sky.

Their path takes them almost directly over Aquaria, and she hesitates a moment, watching them silently. Her eyes follow their arc as they begin to fall to the far side of the canal.

Aquaria seems confused by their maneuver. She turns herself, very slowly, and then lowers her hands. The water falls back into the canal with a violent splash and she steps out into it, walking as easily on the surface of the water as if it were solid ground, waves rippling out under her feet with every step.

and she pauses a moment before stepping out into the canal itself.

Ladybug and Chat Noir land hard, as predicted, but Ladybug doesn't bother herself with that. She whirls around to face Aquaria and discovers that Tempest has finally caught up with his partner in crime, hovering in the air just a few feet above her.

Ladybug smirks slightly.

"Give me your staff," she says, holding out one hand to Chat Noir. Unquestioningly, Chat passes the weapon over.

Ladybug takes a moment to attempt calculate a good trajectory. Then she decides that she was never all that good at physics anyway, and hurls Chat's staff into the sky, deciding to rely on fortune working in her favor instead.

Now, there are a lot of different things that could have happened from that point on. Tempest could have chosen to dodge the staff, instead of catching it easily in one hand. He could have moved in closer to the heroes, instead of lingering in place just above Aquaria and the canal.

But none of those things did happen. Call it good luck, if you will.

Tempest holds Chat's staff up towards the darkened sky, for a moment looking quite triumphant, there against the backdrop of the storm he helped create.

Then the lightning strikes.

It hits Chat Noir's metal staff first, held out into the sky like a lightning rod. Then path of least resistance goes through Tempest, who screams aloud at the shock, and then to Aquaria, until finally the lightning disperses into the canal, crackling and flashing along the surface of the water.

They both crumble and fall heavily into the canal. The splash when they hit the surface of the water sounds hollow and tinny after the roar of thunder when the lightning struck.

Chat Noir stares at their fallen foes with open-mouthed shock. "Are they...?"

"They'll be fine," Ladybug says. She flicks her fingers towards the fallen bodies floating in the water and, with hardly any effort, cures them entirely. "Their transformations make them pretty tough."

Chat Noir is still staring blankly. "I don't think that's how physics is supposed to work," he says distantly.

"I think it is, actually," Ladybug says cheerfully. She skips down to the water, where Aquaria and Tempest are groaning, having just begun to regain their bearings, and hauls them out of the water one at a time before de-akumatizing them. "I've been working on this physics paper for two weeks!" she calls back over her shoulder to Chat Noir. "I totally got this."

"How did you know that the lightning would hit them?" Chat asks, still clearly befuddled.

Ladybug shrugs. "I didn't," she admits casually.

Chat Noir takes a moment to wonder why exactly he lets Ladybug make the plans.

* * *

By the time Monday morning finally rolls around, Adrien is almost relieved.

He'd spent most of the night staring blankly at his vaulted ceilings, too tired to get out of bed and still somehow unable to sleep.

It wasn't that last night's akuma battle had been particularly long, or gruesome, or bloody. Honestly—it went really well for them, all things considered.

He was just worried about what this meant.

Papillon could control two akuma at once. Could he control three? Four? Even more?

Plagg, as per usual, hardly seems bothered. He spends the whole morning complaining about cheese and trying to build a nest in Adrien's hair. They're out of Camembert, so Adrien grabs a hunk of Gouda for his kwami, and his efforts are rewarded with a lengthy lecture on the relative merits of Dutch cheesemaking.

"Don't you care about anything other than cheese?" Adrien says, a little snippishly.

"Not really," Plagg admits. "You're still in a mood, I can see. Is it about Papillon or the tragic fates of your predecessors?"

Adrien only pouts.

"Worrying isn't doing you any good," Plagg continues on. "You should enjoy nice things while you can. Eat fancy cheeses. Or pastries, if you prefer. You'll have plenty enough time for doom and gloom later."

"That's not very reassuring," Adrien says sulkily.

"I don't do reassuring," Plagg says dryly.

Adrien remains silent for the rest of their trip to school. He arrives at Collège Françoise Dupont at 9:02, and wanders through the mostly-empty hallways to his first class of the day.

Normally, he's the first student to arrive in class. But this morning there's another student in the classroom: Marinette.

She's slumped over in her seat, her head cradled on her arms, drooling slightly on the sleeves of her blue paisley overshirt. Adrien lingers near the doorway, and for some reason he finds himself smiling fondly at the scene in front of him.

Plagg—who normally is good about keeping to himself during the school day—pokes his head out of Adrien's shoulderbag with a smug chuckle.

"Oh ho ho," the kwami teases. "Does Ladybug have some competition for your heart?"

At the sound of Plagg's voice, Marinette sits up abruptly, glancing frantically around the classroom. Her hair, normally so well-styled, is loose today, and the free strands fall in haphazardly around her face, blocking her eyes. She brushes them back with clumsy, sleep-addled fingers and looks for the source of the noise.

"Plagg!" Adrien hisses, but the kwami has already retreated into hiding.

Marinette's eyes fall to him, blinking rapidly, and Adrien feels his face heat up. "Sorry," he apologizes quickly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

She must still be half-asleep, Adrien thinks, because instead of clamming up and looking away, Marinette actually smiles softly at him. "'Sokay," she mumbles. She leans forward again, resting her chin on her folded arms. "It's almost time for class, anyway."

Adrien slides into his seat, wondering whether he should press his luck and keep talking to her, or quit while he's ahead. But Marinette makes the decision for him, murmuring sleepily, "You're here early."

"This is the same time I always get here," Adrien says, and he can't resist the silly grin that's currently taking over his face. " _You're_ here early."

Marinette wrinkles up her nose. "Yeah," she says. She's starting to sound more awake now, her voice beginning to lose the scratchiness of sleep. "I hate daylight savings."

Adrien pauses a moment. "Wouldn't daylight savings have made you an hour _late_? _"_

Marinette shakes her head, grumbling. "It would have if I'd just forgotten to reset my clock," she says. "But apparently my alarm clock had already reset itself because it's connected to the wifi or something. So when _I_ went to change it..."

"You accidentally set it an extra hour ahead," Adrien says, wincing sympathetically. "That's unlucky."

"I was born with bad luck," Marinette mumbles, almost despondently.

"Ahaha, right," Adrien says, running a hand through his hair. "Friday the 13th, right?"

Marinette grows very still were she sits, a slight pink flush creeping on her cheeks. Adrien is struck with two revelations at exactly the same time:

(1) Marinette looks adorable when she blushes like that.

(2) It was _Chat Noir_ she'd told about her birthday, not Adrien.

"I, uh," Adrien adds quickly, "heard that from Alya. Or maybe it was Nino. Someone else mentioned it, I mean. I—"

"Probably Alya," Marinette says, laughing nervously. "That is... probably the kind of thing Alya would tell you about."

"Yeah," Adrien agrees quickly. "Probably. Mm-hmm."

They fall into a brief, awkward silence, both of their faces growing steadily redder.

"Thanks for helping Alya," she says suddenly. "With getting interviews and stuff. It really means a lot to her."

Adrien smiles. "No problem," he says. "She's really talented—she totally deserves more opportunities to do serious journalism."

"It means a lot to me too," Marinette adds quickly. Adrien glances back at her to see that her face is now flamingly red. "I m-mean—it was very nice of you, and you didn't have to do it, a-andI'msureLadybugreallyappreciatesittoo."

Adrien blinks a few times, trying to decipher that. Marinette's face gets redder still, the blush now creeping down her neck and onto her chest, and she averts her eyes, half-hiding her face behind her hands. Adrien feels like he should look away or something, but his eyes stayed glued to her anyway.

For just a moment, Adrien can't quite remember what their conversation was about.

"R-right," he says, shaking himself out of his stupor. "Yes. I mean—yes. I hope so too."

Marinette lowers her hands just slightly, barely enough so that she can look at Adrien, and offers him a small smile.

The silence in the classroom is interrupted when the door swings open. Both Marinette and Adrien jump, startled, and whip around to look at the intruder.

Chloé Bourgeois stalks into the classroom, standing straight and tall despite the bags under her eyes. She glances at Adrien, then Marinette, and her already sour expression turns downright nasty.

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng," she says slowly, over-enunciating every syllable. "I see your fashion sense hasn't improved. Did you buy that getup from the maternity section?"

Marinette's expression twists into a scowl. Chloé smirks slightly at that but pretends to be disinterested, instead carefully examining her manicure. "Then again, maybe that's all you can fit into these days."

Marinette's eyes flash with anger, but Adrien is the one who speaks first. "That was uncalled for," he says, tone unusually sharp.

Chloé glances at Adrien skeptically. "Oh come on, Adrien," she says, voice low and honeyed. "You don't actually care about _her_ , do you?"

Adrien glances briefly back at Marinette. Something about her expression has changed—she's still angry, yes, but she also looks... strangely vulnerable. Almost like she's half-afraid that Adrien will agree.

Adrien looks away, guilt gnawing at his conscience. "I do care," he says, forcing himself to keep his tone even. "You should—you should apologize for what you said."

Chloé is staring at him with disbelief. But Adrien lifts his chin and stares right back.

Chloé looks away first. "Sorry, Marinette," she says insincerely. "I didn't realize that you and Adrien were so close."

Then Chloé slides into her desk, apparently very engrossed with something on her phone.

Marinette doesn't acknowledge the apology. Neither does Adrien.

It's not enough, but Adrien thinks that it might be a start.

* * *

The month of April passes in a blur.

Adrien's fears proved to be unfounded. If Papillon was able to akumatize more than one person at once, he chose not to. It was all business as usual on the akuma front: fight, cleanse, repeat. Occasionally the Chevalier Noir shows up to wave his sword around and shout at them, but by some merciful stroke of good fortune he hadn't had the opportunity to run anyone through yet. None of the battles were particularly spectacular. Nobody's akumatization since Aquaria lasted longer than a day.

It made Adrien uneasy. He knew Papillon was capable of fighting harder than this, so why was he wasting so much time with these two-bit villains that often took less than ten minutes to defeat?

Ladybug, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned. "Maybe he's busy," she said, shrugging. "Men's Fashion Week is coming up, isn't it?"

Chat Noir scowls at that. "Do you really think Papillon cares about that sort of thing?"

Ladybug shrugs. "Maybe he's giving up," she offers instead.

 _Maybe he's up to something_ , Adrien's brain supplies unhelpfully.

But it would be a lie to say that it wasn't something of a relief, too. His superhero work was easier than ever, and with the _brevet_ just around the corner, it was nice to have the extra time to focus on his studies.

Well, theoretically, anyway.

He probably should have known that when Chloé suggested that they get together to study at his house, very little studying would actually occur. Instead she's sitting on the couch, her feet propped up onto the coffee table as she very carefully paints her toenails coral pink.

In the background, the television drones on, a reporter saying in a plain, matter-of-fact tone, "Authorities have confirmed that they are still gathering evidence related to the charges of corruption against Mayor Bourgeois last month. An inquiry may be—"

"Are you sure you want to watch this?" Adrien asks quietly, glancing up from the art history textbook that he can't quite seem to force himself to actually read.

"Support for Bourgeois's reelection has dropped to an all-time low," the reporter continues, "however polling still suggest that he will—"

Chloé, still painting her toenails, says, "It's kind of important, isn't it?"

"—Socialist Party candidate Armand D'Argencourt issued a statement last night—"

"You've never been this interested in politics before," Adrien continues. He closes his textbook with a thud, deciding that attempting to study today is probably futile. "It just seems kind of..."

He trails off, gesturing with his hands as he searches for the right word. "Uncharacteristic," he eventually settles on.

"I was eight the last time Daddy was elected," Chloé says, as if that in and of itself is a complete answer. "Also, last time my family wasn't getting personally attacked by the Ladyblog."

"—however the National Front is claiming that—"

"It's not the first scandal your father has gotten caught up in," Adrien says, trying to be reassuring. It does not appear to be working. "I'm sure it'll all blow over soon."

"It always does," Chloé says distantly. But she does not sound like she believes it.

Adrien feels a pang of... something, as he watches Chloé.

On the one hand: he doesn't regret getting Alya involved. He's glad that this corruption has come to light, and that M. Haprèle is getting a chance for real justice. Adrien is still pretty convinced that it was the right thing to do.

On the other...

Chloé, for all her flaws, is his oldest friend. She's hurting now, and it's at least partially his fault.

(And isn't it just the icing on the cake, he thinks, that the two most important women in his life apparently loathe each other?)

"—local collégienne Alya Césaire, the writer behind the popular website known as the Ladyblog, has alleged that—"

Adrien reaches over for the remote and turns off the television. This earns him a cool glare from Chloé, who actually pauses in her nail-painting to look over at him.

"I was watching that," she says coolly.

"Maybe we should actually try studying?" Adrien suggests gently.

Chloé returns her attentions to her toenails. "As if I could focus on anything," she scoffs. "M. Haprèle's trial is ending soon, didn't you know?"

Adrien did know, in fact, and had been trying very hard not to agonize over it.

"They might not come to a decision today," Adrien says gently. "What if we... made flashcards instead?"

"Who do you think I am, Sabrina?"

"We could invite Sabrina over," Adrien suggests cheerfully. "I bet she would _love_ to make flashcards with us."

"Quit it with the goody-two-shoes act," Chloé says curtly.

An uncomfortable silence stretches out between them. Adrien fumbles for a moment, trying to figure out how to respond to that, and comes up with nothing.

Adrien sighs and falls back in his seat. He contemplates picking his art history textbook back up, but ultimately decides that it isn't worth the effort. Chloé returns her attention to her toenails, putting the finishing touches on her last pinky toenail, then wriggling her toes experimentally as she surveys her work.

Their phones both go off at the exact same moment.

Adrien and Chloé exchange a brief look, questioning, and then both dive for their phones with clumsy, desperate fingers.

It takes Adrien two tries to enter the passcode to unlock his phone. He holds his breath and the split-second that it takes to load his most recent notification feels like an eternity.

 _HAPRÈLE NOT GUILTY_ , it boasts, and Adrien's heart soars. He skims briefly over the short update on the Ladyblog, breaking out into a grin.

Sitting beside him, Chloé has a decidedly more unreadable expression.

She lowers her phone down into her lap, still staring at it quite intently, and says, "Alya Césiare might be a loud-mouthed slob, but she's pretty good at what she does."

Adrien quietly pockets his own phone. "You shouldn't say that about Alya," he scolds lightly.

"Oh?" Chloé asks. "You don't think she's a good reporter?"

Adrien resists the urge to roll his eyes. "You know what I meant, Chlo."

"I guess the outcome of the trial isn't really a surprise," Chloé continues on blithely. "It would've looked pretty bad for those judges if it had ended any other way, after everybody getting all touchy about this corruption stuff."

Adrien lets out a little huff. "Thank you," he says dryly, "for spoiling the illusion that there was any justice in this entire affair."

"That's life," Chloé says flatly. "That's just how it works."

Adrien sighs, shaking his head, and runs one hand through his hair. Chloé makes a great effort to pretend to be wholly uninterested, but her gaze keeps flitting back between him and her own phone.

"I'm just glad it's over," Adrien says eventually.

Chloé rolls her eyes. "It's not over yet," she says. "There's still the election. And the prosecutors have to decide what they're gonna do and who they're gonna charge in that whole corruption scandal. Not to mention that nobody seems to have any idea what to do about that whole Papillon thing. D'Argencourt is still pushing for Ladybug and Chat Noir to reveal themselves—"

"Okay," Adrien interrupts, "I think that's enough politics for today."

Chloé pauses for a moment. Then she pockets her cell phone and smiles at Adrien almost wistfully. "Yeah," she agrees softly. "You're probably right. Want to go bake cookies or something?"

Adrien tries and fails to suppress a smile of his own. "We're supposed to be studying," he says.

Chloé only shrugs.

"You're terrible at baking," he adds.

Chloé's laughter at that is sweet and sincere. "Yeah, but I was gonna make you do all the work anyway," she admits. "So, what do you say? You want to make some sablés or something?"

"Yeah," Adrien says. "I'd like that."

* * *

Meanwhile, not so far away, Marinette Dupain-Cheng watches the exact same events unfold on her computer screen. They leave her with a strangely bitter taste in her mouth.

D'Argencourt has recently taken the lead ahead of Bourgeois in the polls, but the numbers are close. Much too close for comfort, in Marinette's opinion. The odds between the two men are almost dead even, but after _everything_ that Alya revealed, Bourgeois shouldn't even be a serious candidate any longer.

"I don't understand, Tikki," she says, grimacing at the half-dozen news articles she has open in separate tabs. "How can Mayor Bourgeois _still_ have supporters after everything that happened?"

Tikki is silent.

She is an old, old creature. Older than history itself. She is not a human, and she has never truly understood human nature, but she has seen enough empires rise and fall to know better than to answer Marinette.

"Ugh, I don't know Tikki," Marinette continues, shaking her head. "I feel like I should be doing something more about this!"

"What else would you do, Marinette?" Tikki asks sagely. "You're already working so hard as Ladybug. Maybe some things just aren't meant to be."

"Maybe," Marinette says. "Or maybe..."

Marinette trails off. Tikki gently prompts, "Or maybe what?"

There's a mischievous twinkle in Marinette's eye. "I have a plan."

* * *

That night, Ladybug makes an unexpected visit to the Césaire household. Or, at least, to the bedroom window of a certain Alya Césaire.

She raps three times on the glass, startling Alya visibly. But she recovers quickly when she sees who her visitor is. Alya wastes no time rushing over to throw the window open, and Ladybug gracefully climbs inside.

"You learned to knock," Alya says, hiding a smile behind her hand.

Ladybug only shrugs. She can hardly admit that she already knew Alya would be at home, having texted her as Marinette just a few minutes before.

"So?" Alya asks, almost giddy with excitement. "What brings Ladybug to my window tonight?"

"I want to thank you for bringing so much attention to M. Haprèle's case," Ladybug says, smiling sincerely. Alya looks like she might collapse over in dead faint. "And I was also wondering if you could help me get a message out."

"Anything," Alya says.

"In light of Mayor Bourgeois's involvement with this case, I'd like to announce that I'm formally supporting Armand D'Argencourt for mayor of Paris."

Alya arches a single brow.

"You know, he's not exactly your biggest fan," Alya points out.

Ladybug's nose wrinkles up slightly. "I've noticed," she says dryly. "I don't particularly like him either. But there are only two viable candidates in this election, and I think we can both agree that Bourgeois is a worse alternative. D'Argencourt and I might have... _different_ perspectives on how to deal with Papillon and his akumas, but I think that there are more important things that we can agree on."

Alya spends a moment mulling this over.

"Yeah, I can work with that," she finally says.

* * *

D'Argencourt makes his own statement the very next morning, just outside the Hôtel de Ville, surrounded by flashing cameras and boom mics.

"It is with great regret," he announces, hardly sounding regretful at all, "that I must reject Ladybug's endorsement."

Well, it's certainly not out-of-character. But it does cause a bit of a stir in the crowd.

"While I greatly appreciate everything she and Chat Noir have done for the city of Paris," D'Argencourt continues, practically shouting to be heard over the clamor, "I cannot stand by and allow two children to be the primary defense of our city. Therefore, it would be disingenuous of me to accept their support."

He pauses a moment, his nose twitching slightly, like there's a bitter taste in his mouth. "Furthermore, if I am elected—as the polls suggest I will be—then I will take measures to ensure that their Miraculouses are kept in safer hands. I don't think that I am alone in believing that a pair of fourteen-year-olds are not suitable wielders for such vastly powerful magical items. In fact, if they are listening now, I encourage them to surrender their Miraculouses to the state immediately, so that trained adults can deal with the situation at hand."

He pauses again, looking straight ahead, eyes hard.

"And if you don't," he says darkly, "I will take them from you."

* * *

 **A/N: For those of you on the cultural accuracy brigade (or if you're just curious), Paris's municipal elections typically take place in March. However, since this is alter!Paris where things are all chassé-croisé n stuff, I decided to have the elections take place in May, like they did in canon. Well, I mean, as much as you can trust background dates from canon... but whatever. :P**


	11. in fear of ruin

"I guess it was probably inevitable," Chat Noir says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ladybug looks back over her shoulder at him, quirking a single brow ever-so-slightly up. She doesn't ask anything out loud, but Chat explains anyway. "I mean, people have been fighting over the Miraculouses all throughout history. It makes sense that there would be more people than just Papillon who want ours."

"Oh," Ladybug says, looking away again. "I guess I hadn't ever really thought of that."

Another brief silence falls between them.

Ladybug shuts her eyes. It's a nice evening, warmer than usual for mid-May, and the slight breeze feels cool against her brow. She leans back against the wrought iron beams of the Eiffel tower and attempts to find solace in the quiet serenity that she can only seem to find in these high, hard-to-reach places.

The sounds of the city below are muted from this high up. But the real problem are her thoughts—a cacophony in her brain, swirling restlessly around in her head.

"I feel like an idiot," Ladybug says.

Chat shakes his head. "You couldn't have known that he would react like that."

"Come _on_ ," Ladybug says, clearly frustrated. "D'Argencourt hates us! I knew that, and I endorsed him anyway, because—I don't know. I thought we could be allies against a bigger evil."

Chat has no reply for that.

"I never should have gotten involved," Ladybug mutters. She tilts her head back, looking up at the nighttime sky. Only a handful of the brightest stars are visible here in the City of Light. "Now that pig of a mayor is going to get re-elected."

Chat Noir reaches over and tugs gently on one of her pigtails. "Hey," he says softly, "look on the bright side. M. Haprèle is free, nobody likes Bourgeois—even if they're voting for him—and we know who our enemies are."

Ladybug blows at her bangs. "I wish we had fewer of them."

"Mm," Chat agrees half-heartedly. "You heard from our knight-time friend lately, by the way?"

Ladybug gives him a Look. "Oh come on, that one was good!" Chat protests.

"I haven't seen him around," Ladybug says, "but it's probably too soon to start hoping that the Chevalier Noir has hung up his sword."

Chat makes a quiet noise of agreement. "Doesn't seem like his style."

Ladybug shakes her head. "What a mess we've made, _chaton_ ," she says.

"I think this one falls squarely on Papillon's shoulders," her partner points out. "At least, I'm not taking any credit for it!"

That manages to coax out a small laugh from Ladybug. "Chat Noir, bringer of destruction, would like everyone to know that he's had no hand in destroying Paris!" she teases.

"Well, I haven't," he points out, grinning. "If _I_ was the supervillain here, I think I would be doing a much better job."

Ladybug presses the back of her hand to her forehead. "Woe upon us if that day ever comes!" she says, toppling over backwards in a fake swoon.

Chat catches her easily, as she knew he would, one arm wrapped securely around her lower back. He holds her aloft there, still tilted backwards, and winks at her. "It'd be a real _cat_ -astrophe."

" _Chaton_. _"_

"Complain all you want, Bugaboo," Chat Noir says cheerfully. "I see that smile you're trying to hide. You love my puns."

The smile in question grows wistful. "I..." Ladybug begins tentatively.

Sensing her change in mood, Chat suddenly becomes serious. Gently, he sets her back up on her feet, his hands lingering lightly at her sides. "Is something wrong, Bug?" he asks, brow furrowed with concern.

What's wrong is that Chat Noir's pretty green eyes are entirely too close to her face, and that she is a teenage girl with more hormones than sense, and some strange, primal part of her brain _really_ likes the way that he's looking at her right now. There's a soft, tender look on his face and she doesn't think anyone has ever looked at her like that before. Her heart feels strangely light in her chest.

"It's, um, getting late," Ladybug says, dancing away from Chat's touch. "We should probably head home for the night. I have this huge history paper to work on, and..."

Chat Noir's eyes widen slightly. "Shoot! Me too, I completely forgot."

Ladybug wanders towards the edge of the platform, fiddling awkwardly with a loose strand of her hair. "Well, until next time, _chaton_ ," she says, giving him half a wave.

Then she dives off of the Eiffel tower and into the darkness.

* * *

"Do you think Ladybug was acting weird?" Adrien asks as he wrestles with his fencing jacket.

"Humans are always acting weird," Plagg says distantly. He's only really half-listening to Adrien at the moment. Most of his attention is currently focused on the tiny wedge of Gruyère that he is evaluating, bright yellow with a mild scent. Plagg nibbles on it, careful to be sure to fully savor all of its flavor, and concludes that it's not terrible, for a Swiss cheese. It could perhaps stand to have a little more substance.

"Okay, but," Adrien says, now moving onto his shoes. "Do you think she was acting, you know, weirder than usual?"

Plagg pauses briefly to recall their most recent interaction with Ladybug.

"Ah," he says.

Adrien shoots a confused look at the kwami. "Ah?" he repeats.

Plagg is an old, old creature. He's watched his humans fall in love and out of it and back in it again. And he's known plenty of Ladybugs, too—Ladybugs who loved his cats back, or didn't love them, or who did love them but in the wrong way.

"No," Plagg says, which is a perfectly honest albeit slightly misleading response. "I don't think she was acting weirder than usual."

Adrien's brows draw together. He is clearly unsatisfied with this answer. He half opens his mouth, about to complain at Plagg, when the kwami interrupts suddenly.

"Aren't you going to be late?" Plagg asks.

Adrien glances down at his wrist to check the time, forgetting both that he's already taken it off and that it would be covered by his fencing gear anyway. "Shoot!" he says, hastily stuffing his things into a duffel bag and scrambling off to class.

Plagg watches his human for a moment, quietly contemplative. Then he settles back down with his cheese.

* * *

Adrien is not, in fact, late to his fencing lesson—but he does squeak into the practice room just barely on the hour. If D'Argencourt is bothered by this, he says nothing about it. In fact, he smiles warmly at Adrien as he enters. The look in his eye is kindly, almost paternal.

It makes something stir uneasily in Adrien's stomach.

This is the same man who wants to take away his Miraculous. The one who would rather fight akumas with tanks and bombs than cleverness and compassion. The one who promises that he could use the power of destruction more effectively than Chat Noir currently is—who never outright says, but quietly insinuates, that he would be willing to use the power of Cataclysm in a much more permanent way.

"Shall we begin?" D'Argencourt says pleasantly. Adrien forces a smile and nods.

Practice goes more or less as normal for the first half hour. D'Argencourt gives him the usual corrections— _mind your footwork_ and _keep your distance_ —and for a little while everything feels very... normal.

Their lesson is interrupted halfway through by a professionally-dressed woman with a serious face and her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She reminds Adrien a bit of Nathalie, if Nathalie was a little younger and more frazzled.

"Sir, there's a call you need to take," she says tensely.

D'Argencourt sighs and removes his fencing mask. "Excuse me a moment, Adrien," he says apologetically. "This election nonsense never seems to end."

"Of course," Adrien says, lowering his sword.

D'Argencourt flashes his student another apologetic smile, then sweeps out of the room, talking in hushed voices with his assistant.

Adrien sits for a while, waiting for D'Argencourt to return. After a few minutes, he stands up to get a drink of water.

Eleven minutes later, D'Argencourt still shows no sign of returning. Adrien, with increasing boredom, fidgets with his gloves, tests the edge of his sabre (still dull), and taps his foot in an uneven rhythm against the ground.

When boredom has well and truly sunk in, Adrien sets his sabre aside and wanders around the practice room, eyes roaming over familiar trophies and banners and posters. He hesitates for a moment near the back, where D'Argencourt has an antique sabre on display.

Modern fencing swords are entirely for sport. They're lightweight, flimsy, and brittle. Sometimes Adrien almost forgets that modern fencing evolved from true fighting—that once matches were fought with real blades, meant for killing.

D'Argencourt, when he finally returns, catches Adrien still staring at the antique weapon.

"You know," he says, startling Adrien out of his reverie, "a lot of parents don't understand that modern fencing isn't at all like the swordfighting they see in movies."

Adrien takes a step back from the case. "Sorry," he says quickly.

"It's fine." D'Argencourt waves him off. "It's natural to be curious."

Adrien heads back to the center of the room, and pulls his helmet back on. But D'Argencourt pauses for a moment.

"Have you ever wanted to try it?" he asks.

"Try what?"

"Rapier fencing," D'Argencourt says. "It's still practiced by a handful of people. Real swords, slower movements." Adrien pauses for a moment, unsure of how to respond to that, when D'Argencourt motions with his head towards the door to his office. "I have a few in the back, here."

"Is it—is it safe?" Adrien asks nervously.

"Safe enough," D'Argencourt reassures him. "The blades are dulled, and among skilled fencers the worst you'll get is a bruise or two." When Adrien has no reply, he asks, "Does that mean you're interested?"

Adrien hesitates a moment longer. "Yes," he eventually says, surprising even himself.

D'Argencourt grins at this. "It's quite the experience," he says cheerfully. "I think you'll enjoy it."

When D'Argencourt emerges from his office, he's carrying a sword in each hand. They're plainer than the antique sword on display, just two straight blades with unpretentious pommels. D'Argencourt holds one out towards Adrien, hilt first, and Adrien tentatively accepts it.

It's heavier than a sabre, but lighter than the staff he fights with as Chat Noir. He tests its weight, making a few slashes through the air, and finds that it's not all that different from his sabre after all.

D'Argencourt smiles at him, then lowers his fencing mask.

" _En garde_ ," he says, raising his blade into position.

* * *

In the week before the election, Papillon makes slightly more of an effort than usual to terrorize Paris. Perhaps it was in an effort to influence voters. Or perhaps Papillon's schedule suddenly had new openings in it.

Either way, the akumatizations—which had become little more than weekly affairs, lately—turned into daily menaces. On Monday, it was a slighted waitress. On Tuesday, an overworked lawyer. And today, Marinette had to abandon her uneaten breakfast to deal with the akumatized temper tantrum of a child no more than five years old.

The battle itself was quite routine. The fight lasted five, maybe ten minutes, and the damage was mostly contained to the Notre Dame cathedral. With a wave of her hands, Ladybug rebuilds the cracked and crumbling flying buttresses, and with a fake smile plastered to her face, she dodges questions from the handful of reporters brave enough to approach her afterward.

After returning the child to her distraught mother, Ladybug and Chat Noir engage in their customary fistbump but don't waste time on conversations—Marinette is going to be late for class, and she has a feeling that Chat Noir is going to be too.

She half-jogs back to school, stomach grumbling, and checks her phone. She has twelve missed messages from Alya, mostly related to the most recent akuma incident, and there's already a new post on the Ladyblog about it.

Sometimes, Marinette has to wonder how Alya does it. She didn't even see her on the scene at all, but somehow Alya managed to compile enough second-hand information to throw up a short blurb on the fight. It even had pictures.

Marinette skims the post briefly—she _does_ make efforts to keep up with the Ladyblog, really, but there's only so much recap of her life that she can manage to read in-between her superhero duties and her classwork and helping out with her parents at the bakery—and then shoves her cell phone back into her bag, picking up her pace to an all-out sprint in the last few seconds before class starts.

By some miracle, Marinette squeezes into science class _just_ as the bell finishes ringing. She earns herself a frown and a tut-tut from Mme Mendeleiev, but fortunately she earns a temporary reprieve when Adrien bursts into the classroom just a few seconds later.

"M. Agreste," Mme Mendeleiev drones sarcastically. She taps one fingernail against her desk in a slow rhythm. "How nice of you to find time in your busy schedule to join us."

"Sorry," Adrien says, hanging his head and looking genuinely ashamed.

"You and Mlle Cheng have both accumulated a suspicious number of absences and tardies this trimester," Mendeleiev continues, swiveling her ice cold gaze back to Marinette, who has only just managed to slide into her seat next to Alya. "It's almost enough to make one wonder."

Mendeleiv does not specify what she's wondering about, but both Marinette and Adrien and half of the class seem to get her meaning. Students try to muffle giggles while Marinette's face lights up bright red. Chloé is seething in her seat.

"I'm sorry," Adrien apologizes sincerely. "It won't happen again."

Mendeleiev does not mention that he promised this the last three times he was late, too. She just waves her hand dismissively at him, and Adrien darts across the classroom and into his chair.

"Alright, you slackers," Mendeleiev begins brashly, hoisting up a stack of graded exams. "Let's talk for a minute about the test. I _told_ you that alternating current was going to be on this test, and not a _single_ one of you got the first question correct! Did you all forget what sinusoids are?"

Marinette listens diligently to Mme Mendeleiev's screed for about thirty more seconds, before deciding that her science grade is probably a lost cause anyway. She sighs softly, resting her head on one hand, and wonders if it would be worth risking Mendeleiev's wrath to try to sneak in a quick nap.

"And you, Cheng!" Mendeleiev snaps, rousing Marinette. So much for that nap. She slams down a graded exam on Marinette's desk in front of her, and her heart sinks when she sees that it's positively covered in red ink. "I'm beginning to wonder whether you're even trying anymore!"

Marinette grits her teeth, but says nothing.

"You're all going to have to learn to do much better than this if you have any hope of succeeding in lycée next year," Mendeleiev continues, turning back towards the rest of the class. "Your teachers there are _not_ going to be as nice as I am..."

Marinette flips through her graded exam, grimacing at her score. Her science grade really _is_ a lost cause, at this rate, but maybe that's for the best. If she devotes more of her study time to English and German, and gets started on that history paper tonight...

By the time class ends, Marinette has a schedule all blocked out in her head, and barring any unexpected akumatizations, she thinks that her schoolwork is all manageable.

So, naturally, her good luck doesn't hold.

As Marinette is packing up her things, Alya grabs her by the arm, looking almost giddy. Marinette doesn't know whether to be worried or excited.

"Marinette," she says, "I have the _coolest_ lead on this Miraculous stuff and I need you to come with me to this magic shop later today."

"Alya, you know I have kickboxing on Wednesdays," Marinette says, apologetic.

Alya flashes her a toothy grin. "I _do_ know," she agrees. "I also know that your class will be over by three, and _then_ we can go to Master Fu's Enchanted Artifacts & Appraisal together. Look, I've already put it in your calendar."

She holds up Marinette's phone in her hand and gives a little wave.

Marinette's heart leaps, and she reaches over to snatch her phone back. Alya lets her take it without a fight. "Hey!" she says, cradling the device close to her chest.

"Well, how else am I supposed to know when you'd be free?" Alya says, laughing a little. "You're busy like _all_ the time these days. Plus, I figured you wouldn't mind, considering that time you stole Chloé's phone, and Nino's iPod, plus that time with the photographer..."

"Okay, point taken," Marinette says. Still, she puts her cell phone in her purse this time, and holds it a little more closely to her body than she normally would. "But, I have a lot of schoolwork, and..."

She trails off. Alya looks away, the disappointment clear in her eyes, and Marinette feels her heart lurch.

All hope of finishing her history paper on time are quickly dwindling away. But Alya looks so disappointedthat Marinette doesn't think she could bear to turn to her down. So Marinette forces herself to smile, consequences be damned.

"You know what," she says cheerfully, "I'd love to go with you."

* * *

Master Fu's is just around the corner from the Dupain-Cheng bakery, a tiny little sliver of a shop that's barely wide enough to fit its name across the top. Inside, the shop is dimly lit and crowded with endless gadgets and trinkets—wind chimes hanging from the ceiling, counters heaped carelessly with scrying boards and crystal balls, locked glass cabinets filled with mysterious, smoky bottles.

At the back of the room a small Chinese man sits at a low desk. While the rest of the store is dark and shadowy, he stands out in a spot of brightness, the only part of the whole store that's brightly lit. He is dressed in khaki shorts and the tackiest floral print tee-shirt that Marinette has ever laid her eyes on.

Alya heads for the back of the store straight away, but Marinette lingers near the front, eyes roaming over the assorted magic items gathered in the shop. She feels a chill down her spine as she slowly makes her way after Alya, careful not to bump against any of the shelves.

The desk where the old man is seated, by contrast with the rest of the store, is mostly devoid of decoration. It's very plain, made of solid wood, with nothing on it but an old-fashioned Tiffany lamp that illuminates the space with soft yellow light.

"So what can I do for you two ladies?" he asks, smiling kindly at them. "Magical pocketwatch? Enchanted family heirloom? Cursed earrings?"

Marinette starts. The old man looks straight at her, eyes twinkling.

"We're not here for an appraisal," Alya says. "I'm Alya Césaire, from the Ladyblog. This is my assistant, Marinette. We spoke on the phone yesterday...?"

"Ah, of course," the old man says. "How nice to see you, Mlle Césaire. Have a seat."

Alya and Marinette sit down in two of the cheap vinyl chairs that are lined up in front of the desk. Marinette sits awkwardly, uncertain of what to say, while Alya fishes through her bag and at length produces a beaten-up spiral bound notebook, several black ballpoint pens, and a hefty tape recorder that looks like it was built in the eighties.

"Do you mind if I record this?" Alya asks, holding up the device.

"Not at all," Fu says pleasantly. Alya grins at him and, after messing with a few buttons, gathers up her writing materials.

"Okay, first thing," Alya says, clicking her pen a few times. "What are the Miraculouses?"

Fu leans back casually in his seat. "Very powerful, very potent magical items," he says. "Each one is tied to a certain human concept. Ladybug, for example, wields good luck. Papillon has change. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others. Fate, purity, diligence... the list goes on. But you already knew that, of course."

Alya smiles up at him sheepishly. "Well, I have to be thorough."

Fu's eyes grow mischievous. "Why don't you tell me what you really want to know?"

Alya scribbles something down quickly in her notebook. "Do you know anything about who Ladybug or Papillon might be?"

"Hmm," he says. One hand goes up to his chin. "They could be anyone, I suppose."

Marinette goes very, _very_ still in her seat.

"I've had the fortune to know a handful of Miraculous-wielders in my lifetime," Fu says pleasantly. "Or perhaps it would be more apt to say _misfortune_. In any case, I have discovered that the person beneath the mask often behaves very differently when they are transformed. It's easy to imagine that the man behind Papillon is a criminal, as vile in ordinary life as he is as a supervillain. But more likely than not, he is out there among us, blending seamlessly into the crowd."

Fu watches Marinette carefully as he speaks, and Marinette is so tense that she hardly dares to breathe. She holds her purse and little more tightly, all too aware of the kwami sleeping inside of it, and finds herself growing more and more paranoid with every word.

Alya, on the other hand, doesn't notice anything strange about the exchange, and seems almost gleeful as she desperately scribbles down a few notes on her pad. "Any speculation about how they got their Miraculouses in the first place?" Alya continues, gaze flickering up from her notes just briefly.

Fu smiles slightly at that. "I've seen many people come into my shop," he says, "and no two of them had the same story. Magic, whether it be big or small, comes to people in many ways."

Alya nods along thoughtfully to that. It's clearly not the answer she was hoping for, but she seems satisfied nonetheless.

"What do you think of Armand D'Argencourt's suggestion that Ladybug and Chat Noir surrender their Miraculouses to the state?"

Fu pauses a moment, steepling his fingers together on top of his desk. "I'm sure he means well," he says diplomatically.

"But?" Alya prompts.

Fu's eyes flicker over to Marinette again. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, fiddling with the strap of her purse. She can't shake the feeling that he can see right through her.

"Such things have been tried before. They often work, for a time. But the nature of power is to corrupt. No matter how good their intentions were, they often find themselves using the Miraculouses for evil purposes. The Caesars of Rome, the Tsars of Russia, the Bashoruns of Oyo... history would advise us not to repeat the mistakes of our predecessors."

Alya lifts one eyebrow curiously. Her pen has stilled. "Oh?" she asks, sounding genuinely interested.

Fu grows solemn. "A magic that potent can be very dangerous in the wrong hands," he continues, "and all Miraculous wielders, really, are in danger of being corrupted by their power."

Now both of Alya's eyebrows shoot up. " _All_ of them?" she asks skeptically.

"Yes," Fu says plainly. "Take Chat Noir, for example. He seems like a kind-hearted young man. But remember that he can kill you with a single touch. The power of destruction is literally at his fingertips... there are few people who wouldn't be tempted to misuse a power like that."

Something stirs in Marinette's chest, tight and uncomfortable.

"Just what are you trying to say?" she asks quietly.

Alya looks at her, startled, but Fu doesn't seem bothered by her interjection. "I am saying exactly what you think I'm saying," Fu says kindly. "That power is dangerous."

"That's _Chat Noir_ you're talking about," Marinette says, voice taking on a sharp edge. "He's not _dangerous_ to anyone except Papillon."

"Perhaps not today," Fu says. He looks straight at her, his eyes calm and clear, and spends a moment carefully considering his next words. "But as I said. There are few people who wouldn't be tempted to misuse a power like that. He would make a very considerable foe if he ever used his powers for evil, and there would be few people in the world who could do anything to stop him."

Alya is nodding along solemnly, jotting down a few notes as he talks. But as Marinette watches the scene play out in front of her, she feels the tightness in her chest grow into a cold rage, her hands clenching into fists.

"How _dare_ you," she breathes out, her voice dangerous. "Chat Noir is a _hero._ Do you have any kind of idea the sacrifices he makes for this city?"

Fu makes no response. Alya is giving Marinette a pointed look, trying to signal for her to stop, but Marinette just feels the rage bubbling up even more in her chest.

"Do you have any idea how _hard_ he fights for this city? How much he's suffered through to keep you safe?" When Fu still remains silent, something in Marinette finally snaps. She stands up and slams both her hands down on the desk. The lamp in the corner rattles. "Chat Noir is the nicest, sweetest, gentlest person I have _ever_ met, and I won't let you— _s_ _mear_ him like this!"

Fu's expression becomes unreadable. "Better people have been corrupted by less," he says calmly.

Marinette leans over the desk, so that her face is dangerously close to Fu's. " _No one_ is a better person than Chat Noir," she growls.

Fu stares back at her impassively. Alya's eyes have gone hugely wide as she watches on, mouth hanging open. A moment passes in tense silence before Marinette realizes just what she's done.

"I'm sorry," Marinette says quickly. She practically throws herself backwards, stumbling over her chair as she does. "I didn't—I mean—I'll, um, I'll go wait outside."

She turns on her heel without waiting for an answer and practically runs out of the shop.

It's bright outside, the sun hanging low in the sky. Marinette squints at the sudden sunlight and spends a moment trying to regain her bearings.

She presses her back against the wall and slides down to the ground. There's a cool breeze that feels good against her burning cheeks. One-handed, she fiddles with the latch on her purse and cracks it open just enough that she can talk to Tikki.

"I'm pretty sure that was the most embarrassing thing I've ever done in my life," she confides to her kwami.

"Oh, Marinette," Tikki says sympathetically. "It really wasn't that bad."

Marinette shakes her head. Now that she's outside, she realizes that her heart is racing, and she tries to slow it down a little by taking a few deep, even breaths. "I don't know what got into me, Tikki," she says. "I just..."

She doesn't get a chance to finish her sentence. The door opens with a jingle, and Marinette's gaze snaps back up. Alya is standing in front of her, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket. Marinette scrambles up to her feet.

"Do I even want to know what that outburst was about?" Alya asks, brow furrowed quizzically.

"I'm sorry, Alya," Marinette says. "I don't know what got into me."

Alya only shakes her head. "It's okay," she says. "I'm not mad or anything. And, I mean, he did save your life that one time, right? I guess it makes sense that you'd be kind of defensive of him."

Marinette opens her mouth to speak, but the words get stuck halfway up her throat.

She wishes that she could explain. But there's nothing that she can say to Alya. Not without giving her identity away, at least.

Alya, misunderstanding her silence, reaches over and pulls Marinette into a brief hug. "Really, I'm not mad!" she says, squeezing her arms around Marinette.

"Thanks, Alya," Marinette says softly.

She hugs Alya back, maybe a little bit tighter than was strictly necessary, and almost doesn't want to let go when Alya starts to pull away.

"Besides," Alya continues, readjusting the strap on her bag, "I think I'd already gotten as much out of him as I was going to get."

Marinette nods at that, then waits a beat before asking, "You're not going to publish the things he said about Chat Noir, right?"

Alya doesn't answer at first, pressing her lips together, and for a moment Marinette's afraid of what her answer will be. But when she finally speaks, she says, "No. I wouldn't do that." She shifts uncomfortably where she stands, moving her weight nervously between her feet. "Of course, it's nothing that Nadja Chamack isn't already saying."

Marinette's head snaps up. "What?"

* * *

"Chat Noir: superhero, or public menace?" Nadja Chamack says, her voice made tinny by the computer's speakers. "Can we _really_ trust someone with the power of destruction at his fingertips? In light of recent events, some concerned citizens are asking local authorities to intervene. More at eleven."

Adrien spins around in his computer chair. Plagg, who had been sitting on Adrien's shoulder, leaps away in disgust.

"Ugh, can we turn this off already?" he whines. "This Chamack lady is getting on my nerves."

"Shush, Plagg," Adrien chides. Despite the spinning, he keeps his eyes glued to the screen, watching the election coverage. "She's just mad about the Fontaine du Palmier."

Plagg keeps grumbling anyway. "Ladybug already fixed that!" he whines. "And anyway, that thing is _horrifically_ tacky. Paris probably would've looked better if she'd just left it in ruins."

"I'll be sure to let her know your opinion on the matter," Adrien says dryly.

"Good," Plagg says, a little haughtily. He wanders over back towards Adrien, hovering by his head, and then plops down on top of his computer monitor. "Though I don't suppose that she will care. Tikki's wielders are always so selfish."

Adrien lifts one brow suspiciously, but Plagg declines to elaborate. Adrien thinks about asking him, but ultimately decides that it wouldn't be worth the effort to pry an explanation out of Plagg. He returns his attention towards the TV coverage instead.

"This is Nadja Chamack, confirming that no mayoral candidate has earned enough votes to win this evening," the reporter says. Adrien lets out the breath—in relief or defeat, he's not certain which. "A runoff election between Bourgeois and D'Argencourt will be held one week from today, with UMP incumbent Bourgeois highly favored to win."

Plagg lowers his head on his perch, resting his chin against the top of Adrien's screen. "So, is that the result you wanted or not?"

Adrien shrugs, holding his hands out in front of him helplessly. "I don't know," he admits. "Anyway, it's not over yet. There's going to be a runoff election next week."

Plagg rolls his eyes. "You heard the lady," he says dryly. "Bourgeois is going to win."

"Things could still change," Adrien offers tentatively. "Something really dramatic could happen, or... you know. Something."

"Well, can we at least turn off the TV now?

"What, don't you want to hear about how TVI thinks I'm a bad influence on children?"

Plagg sniffs. "No," he says, his voice a low whine. "Why don't we do something fun for once? Play a video game or watch a movie or—"

Plagg cuts off abruptly. Adrien lifts his head slightly to look at the kwami and finds that he's disappeared, almost as if he'd vanished into thin air.

"Plagg?" he asks, glancing around his bedroom.

Before he has a chance to do anything, the door to his bedroom swings open without warning, startling him. He jumps out of his chair, battle reflexes automatically kicking in, but it's just his father. Gabriel Agreste stands tall in the doorway, his face drawn tight into a stern, disapproving expression.

"Adrien," Gabriel says curtly, "Nathalie has informed me that you missed your Chinese lesson this week."

Adrien winces slightly. He probably should have seen this coming.

"There was an akuma at school," Adrien says nervously. Lying to his father always makes him nervous. After fourteen years half-truths and lies by omission, you might think that Adrien would have grown used to it by now, but somehow it still makes his stomach churn uneasily. "I was trapped with some of the other students—"

"You were not," Gabriel interrupts, eyes flashing. "Don't lie to me."

Adrien takes half a step back.

Well, it _was_ a lie, technically. But only technically.

"I was," he repeats.

Gabriel's mouth twists into a grimace.

"I happen to know for a fact," he says coldly, "that you were nowhere near the akuma. You were in no danger. You skipped your lesson intentionally—"

"How could you _possibly_ know that?" Adrien snaps, suddenly indignant.

Gabriel's eyes widen slightly, clearly startled by the outburst. He's not the only one. Adrien can hardly believe the words that came out of his own mouth. But now that he's started, it's like a dam has broken, and he finds himself unable—or maybe just unwilling—to stop.

"You're never around," he continues angrily. His hands have started trembling now. "You don't even know what classes I'm taking! You don't know the names of my friends. Sometimes I wonder if you even remember when my _birthday_ is—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Gabriel growls, "I know _exactly_ when—"

"Then why didn't you get me anything?" Adrien demands coldly, leveling an icy glare straight at his father.

Gabriel glares right back, but he doesn't say anything.

There's no good answer to that question, and Adrien knows it. He feels a strange, cold satisfaction as he watches Gabriel's expression shift almost imperceptibly, pinpointing the exact moment when his father realizes that he's been beaten.

"Consider yourself grounded," Gabriel eventually says curtly.

He doesn't say anything else. He just turns on his heel and closes the door behind him, stopping just short of slamming it. Adrien watches the door for a few long, silent moments after his father leaves, chest heaving, hands balled up into fists.

"Plagg," he says, even though the kwami is still out of sight. "Transform me."

Adrien doesn't have any particular destination in mind when he leaves the house, only that he needs to get _out_ of there, and so it's a long time before he realizes that he's been gradually making his way towards the 16th arrondissement.

He hesitates for a moment, lingering at one end of the Champ de Mars. The Eiffel Tower, standing proud and tall in all its rebuilt glory, is a tempting option. But Chat decides to avoid it this time, opting for lower roofs and easier running. He settles instead on the Palais de Chaillot, finding a perch on the roof in the middle of the east wing. Instead of facing the nearby gardens, he turns his gaze westward, eyes drawn to the windows of the tiny, abandoned office that his mother once worked in.

A mess of thoughts swirl in his head. His mother and her disappearance, his father's behavior, the elections.

He senses Ladybug's approach before he hears her. He can feel her presence prickling in the back of his mind, the connection growing stronger the closer she gets. He waits until she's landed on the rooftop beside him before he turns to face her, though.

"Akuma?" he asks, a little hoarsely. It's about the last thing he wants to deal with today, but he has a duty to his city and he's not going to abandon it.

But Ladybug shakes her head. Chat lifts one brow, questioning.

"I... thought you might like some company," Ladybug explains awkwardly.

He would, actually. He almost asks her how she knew, but he suspects that Miraculous magic had a hand in that. So instead he offers her a half-hearted smile.

"Thanks," he says. He turns back around, his eyes drawn back to the same spot. Ladybug follows his gaze, spotting the building across the street, and then comes to sit down beside him.

"I wish I could ask about it," she says, hugging her knees to her chest. "There are so many things that I don't know about you."

Something in Chat Noir's chest feels warm and fluttery. "You could ask," he tells her, almost desperately. "I'd tell you anything you wanted to know."

Ladybug smiles ruefully.

"I know you would," she says. "That's why I can't."

Chat Noir tries to swallow down his disappointment, looking away. She's right, of course—he'd give away his identity in a heartbeat—but it still stings.

"Hey," Ladybug says gently, drawing his eyes back towards her. She's drawn in close to him now—so close that he can see the faint freckles dotted along her cheekbones—and her sapphire blue eyes are looking right into his own. "Whatever it is that's going on in your other life, I want you to know that I'll be here for you. Okay?"

Chat leans just a little bit forward, so that his forehead is touching hers, and closes his eyes. "Thank you," he says softly.

He doesn't kiss her, even though he wants to.

* * *

Marinette had to admit: smug was a good look for Chloé.

On Monday morning after the election, she glides into the classroom, practically gloating. After everything—after Haprèle and the trial and all of Alya's work—it looks like Mayor Bourgeois is getting re-elected anyway.

 _It's not fair_ , Marinette thinks—but then, life so rarely is.

And, as if Chloé could somehow pick up on her agony, the first thing she does before class in the morning is make a beeline straight for Marinette's desk, her favorite lackey in tow. Marinette lowers her head and hopes that they'll pass by, but naturally she has no such luck.

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng," Chloé says, leaning on one arm on Marinette's desk. Behind her, Sabrina giggles slightly, as if her very name were some kind of joke.

Ordinarily, Marinette wouldn't put up with Chloé's crap. But today she just doesn't feel up to the fight.

"Go away, Chloé," she says. She keeps her gaze fixed solidly on her notebook, and instead of looking up at Chloé or Sabrina, she focuses instead on doodling some designs in the margins of her notes.

"There's no need for that, Marinette," Chloé says sweetly. "We just wanted to compliment you on your cardigan. Right, Sabrina?"

"Yeah, it's pretty," Sabrina agrees, but her face betrays her mirth. "Pretty ugly!"

"Wow, I've never heard that one before," Marinette mutters sarcastically.

"I'm not surprised to hear that," Chloé says, mock-sincere. "You don't like you get out very often. Honestly, Marinette, were you trying to dress like a librarian or are you really just that dumb?"

 _Don't let them get to you_ , Marinette thinks to herself. She presses her pencil down hard against her notebook, doodling with increasingly vicious intensity. _Don't let them—_

"Then again," Chloé says, pretending to contemplate it, "maybe you're just preparing for the future. Gosh, it must be so depressing to know that you'll be alone and unloved forever."

The tip of Marinette's pencil snaps.

She whips her head up to look at Chloé, practically snarling, but before she can do anything that she'll regret, Adrien dashes into the classroom.

"Hi Chloé!" he says cheerfully, slipping past her as he heads to his own desk. If his cheer seems slightly more forced than usual, none of the girls notice it. "Hi Marinette! I like your cardigan!"

Marinette looks up and flashes Adrien the biggest, most dazzling grin she can manage. This makes a much sweeter revenge than anything she could have done to Chloé herself. "Thanks, Adrien!" she says, batting her eyelashes a little at him. "I made it myself!"

"Wow, really?" Adrien wonders out loud. He leans forward slightly, examining her crochetwork, his eyes tracing over the carefully stitched shells and delicate lace edging. Beside him, Chloé has turned from smug to seething in an instant. "That's incredible. You're really talented."

"Thanks," Marinette says, still laying it on as thick as she can manage. "That means so much, coming from you. Your father is one of my favorite designers."

Her words are directed at Adrien. But her eyes are focused on Chloé the entire time she's speaking.

Adrien's face lights up at that. "He's one of Chloé's favorite designers, too," he says, either completely oblivious to or pointedly ignoring the tension between the two girls. "You know, you two probably have a lot in common. We should all hang out sometime!"

Marinette looks at Chloé.

Chloé looks at Adrien.

"Yeeaahh, that sounds great—" Marinette begins, voice strained.

"I would _love_ that," Chloé says, with a false sweetness that's not convincing anyone other than Adrien.

They are saved by the appearance of Mme Bustier, signaling the start of class. Everyone scatters to their own seat, and Alya slides into her desk next to Marinette.

"Hey girl," she says. "So, what do you think that was about?"

Marinette glances between Mme Bustier, who has begun lecturing in a soft voice, and her best friend. "What was what about?"

" _Adrien_ ," Alya whispers back, rolling her eyes as if it should have been obvious.

"He and Chloé _are_ old friends," Marinette hisses back. "It wasn't _that_ weird—"

"Not that," Alya interrupts. She pauses, silent for a moment as Mme Bustier casts a critical eye in her direction, and then continues on when their teacher has passed, "He was way late. Well—later than usual, I mean. And then he was totally flirting with you. And _you_ were flirting _back!_ "

Marinette's face grows red. She'd been so caught up in her feud with Chloé that she hadn't quite processed all the things that she'd said to Adrien.

"Well it wasn't that weird," she says quickly. "People run late sometimes. And they can say nice things to each other without it being weird. He can be kind of oblivious sometimes, I don't think he meant to be flirty—"

Alya cocks one eyebrow at Marinette. It's the look she uses when she's filing away information for later consideration, and Marinette knows that this conversation is nowhere near over, but Alya mercifully changes the topic.

"Have you read my latest Ladyblog post yet?" she whispers, continuing to ignore Mme Bustier's lesson.

She hasn't, but Marinette says in a dull voice, "Yes, Alya. You remember that I was there when you interviewed Fu, right?"

"No, that was my second-to-last post," Alya says, shaking her head with something that might be exasperation. "Have you read the one I put up this morning?"

"I guess not?" Marinette says. "What is it?"

"Here," Alya says, shoving her phone into Marinette's hand. Marinette glances down at it.

Marinette's heart sinks in her chest. Suddenly the classroom seems far too cold.

 _LADYBUG COLLÉGIENNE?_ asks the title of Alya's most recent post.

* * *

On a typical day, Master Fu's Magic Artificats and Appraisal closes at exactly six pm. But one particular Monday evening, on a whim, Master Fu leaves his door open a little longer.

Sitting on a nearby shelf, Wayzz watches him curiously, but says nothing.

The sun makes its way across the sky, casting soft golden light and long shadows through the shop's window. Fu squints against the brightness and continues to wait, adjusting the positioning of a few precariously placed charms on their overcrowded shelves.

The bell over the door jingles as it opens.

Fu looks up from where he stands, half-smiling. "So what can I do for you, young man?" he says kindly. "Magical pocketwatch? Enchanted family heirloom?"

The boy takes a few more steps into the room, shifting his grip on his shoulderbag anxiously.

Fu watches carefully. "Cursed ring?" he offers instead.

"I want to talk to you about my mother," Adrien says.


	12. melt like ice

"This is bad, Tikki. Really bad!"

Marinette paces across her bedroom floor, phone clutched tightly in one hand. She's gesturing wildly with her other hand, making frantic movements without aim or purpose. Tikki watches silently, lips pressed together into a thin line.

"Oh my god, Tikki," Marinette continues, still pacing. "What am I going to do? What am I going to tell _my parents?!_ "

"Alya still does not know your identity," Tikki offers optimistically.

"She knows what school I go to!" Marinette exclaims. She extends her phone out with one hand, practically shoving it in Tikki's face. Tikki delicately backs away from the device, but Marinette hardly seems to notice. "She knows what neighborhood I live in! There aren't that many girls at Françoise Dupont—and Alya's really smart. She's going to figure it out eventually."

"Perhaps not," Tikki says sagely.

Marinette does not look comforted. But Tikki is an old, old creature. The actions of one over-ambitious teenage girl are not very concerning to the millenia-old embodiment of good luck—even if said girl's blog does have readership in the tens of thousands.

" _Uggghhh_ ," Marinette says. She flops back dramatically onto her chaise, arms crossed over her chest. "I should've known that this would happen! That map—she' s had it for months now! And all those videos she's got of Ladybug flying out of the school courtyard—and oh no, do you think she's going to figure out Chat Noir, too?"

Tikki doesn't address any of those concerns. She floats over to Marinette, hovering near her head, and says gently, "We just need to convince Alya that she's mistaken. I'm sure we can figure something out if we work together."

Marinette is still white-faced and panicky. But she nods sharply. "Yeah, okay. A plan."

"Ladybug is great at plans," Tikki reminds her.

"Yeah," Marinette agrees. Almost instantly, her mood switches from dismay to determination. The change is so swift that it might've surprised Tikki thirty or forty thousand years ago. As it is, Tikki finds Marinette's reaction wholly expected.

"Okay," Marinette is saying. "Yeah, I'm great at plans. We can totally do this! Let's get some, like, notebook paper or something. We're gonna get this worked out."

Tikki smiles benevolently. "That's the spirit," she says sweetly.

* * *

The apartment above Master Fu's Enchanted Artifacts and Appraisal, quite unlike the store itself, is clean, minimalistic, and sparsely decorated.

The curtains—plain and white—have been drawn on all the windows, but inside it's still brightly lit. Adrien sits at Fu's kitchen table, holding a steadily cooling mug of tea in his hands. Fu sits across from him, sipping slowly at his own tea, with his kwami perched on the table near him.

Fu's kwami did not look much like Plagg. For one thing, its shape was... fuzzier. The longer Adrien looked at it, the less certain he was of what he was seeing.

Those cold eyes though. Those were clear enough, and they sent a shiver down Adrien's spine.

Plagg, for his part, has decided that this would be a wonderful time to display all the affection he usually withholds. He climbs all over Adrien, crawling from one shoulder to the other, nuzzling up almost possessively against Adrien's neck, hissing slightly all the while.

"C'mon, Plagg," Adrien whispers to the kwami. He reaches up with one hand to stroke behind Plagg's ears nervously.

"You'll have to forgive our kwami," Fu says calmly. He offers the boy a small smile. "They are... opposing forces, so to speak. It is not in their nature to get along."

"Can it, old man," Plagg hisses. He leaps down from Adrien's shoulder to stalk along the table, and Fu's kwami watches with critical eyes. "Gwayy has been interfering in _my_ affairs for the last two hundred years—"

"Oh, honestly, Plagg," Fu's kwami interrupts. "I haven't gone by that name in a thousand years. And they're not _your_ affairs."

Plagg bares his teeth. "You have brought us nothing but trouble, _Wayzz_. This is _my_ home, and you are not welcome here."

"We are kwami, Plagg," Wayzz says sternly. "We don't have homes."

Plagg makes a dark, rumbling sound that could almost be called a laugh. Adrien looks up nervously at Fu, but the old man only sips calmly at his tea.

" _I_ was born here," Plagg growls, "carved out of the hopes and fears of humans first crossing these seas. Fifty thousand years I have lived here, the ghost of those cold, cruel ocean waves. I was old before humankind had even the vaguest notion of _you_. This place has been my home for longer than you have _existed_."

"You can't lay claim to the entire Mediterranean, Plagg," Wayzz says calmly.

"Watch me!" Plagg spits. "You should go back to Serica, where you belong."

"I go where I am needed," Wayzz says.

"Where you are _needed?_ " Plagg hisses. " _Where you are NEEDED?_ "

The lights in the room flicker. For a moment, Plagg seems to transform before Adrien's eyes—no longer a cat-like creature, but instead a hideous multi-dimensional monstrosity, echoes and shadows of his form rippling across the space that he occupies. His appearance is indescribable—black and ragged and sharp—and almost painful to behold. Plagg looks like the very personification of darkness, of destruction.

"Did Félix _NEED_ to get killed by your stupid, _worthless_ harpy of a peacock—"

"Plagg," Fu interrupts softly.

In an instant, Plagg returns to his normal form. Realizing what he's said, he shrinks in on himself and whirls around to face Adrien, horror writ clear across his expression.

"It's okay," Adrien says gently. He holds out one hand towards Plagg, and the kwami tentatively flies to it, pressing his head gently against Adrien's fingers. "I kind of already suspected."

"Did you indeed?" Fu asks. He sets down his tea, watching Adrien with unreadable eyes.

"The Miraculouses came from somewhere, didn't they?" Adrien smiles wryly. "Something had to have happened to the wielders that came before us."

"And your mother?"

Adrien keeps his expression carefully neutral. "Father always said that she was a troublemaker."

"Hmm," Fu says. "And what makes you think I would know anything about that?"

Adrien's eyes slide over to Plagg.

"Just a hunch," he says lightly. Fu takes another slow sip from his tea.

"You were there," Adrien guesses. "The Trocadéro Disaster."

Fu says nothing, but his silence is answer enough for Adrien. There's a certain tenseness in his jaw, a hardness in his eyes, that belies the truth. For the first time in seven years, he feels a faint glimmer of hope.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Adrien asks. "I just—I want to understand."

Fu inhales slowly, closing his eyes. He traces his fingers in a slow spiral on the tabletop, contemplative, and for a moment Adrien is half-afraid that he won't answer. But, after a pause, he begins speaking softly.

"Many years ago," he says, "my companions and I found ourselves in possession of an unclaimed Miraculous. We each agreed that it would be too dangerous to allow any one of us to wield two at once, and so we decided that we should seek out a new wielder. As the oldest of our group, that responsibility fell to me."

Adrien nods along to the story, hardly surprised. "After much consideration," Fu continues, "I selected your mother to wield the peacock Miraculous. Your mother was an incredible young woman. Kind, principled, strong. She had all the makings of an excellent wielder. Someone who would use her power for good, and defend against those who used their powers for evil. But..."

Fu pauses a moment. Adrien says dully, "You made a mistake."

Another pause. "I did," Fu admits. "She was a poor match for her kwami. Your mother might have made a wonderful hero in other circumstances, but Duusu had a way of bringing out the worst in her."

"Plagg... explained some of that to me," Adrien admits.

"Power changes people," Fu says. He takes a long, slow sip from his tea. "Your mother was a very good person. She only ever wanted to help people. But somewhere along the way she lost sight of that. Her desire to protect people became a desire to control them..."

Fu falls silent, so Adrien continues on for him. "So she became a supervillain instead," he says dryly. Plagg nuzzles gently against his neck.

"Supervillain may not be the correct word," Fu says slowly.

"One hundred and twenty-seven people died," Adrien says flatly. "What else would you call that?"

Fu pauses a moment, staring blankly at the cup of tea in his hands.

"No one wanted that," he finally says. "The Trocadéro incident was..."

Fu trails off again. His kwami looks up at him, concern clear in his eyes, but it's Plagg who eventually speaks.

"A three-way battle between thirteen Miraculous wielders," he says. "Ground zero for an ideological conflict that had been brewing for decades. The humans were just collateral damage."

Adrien glances down at Plagg warily. His kwami offers no further explanation.

"What were you even fighting over?" Adrien finally asks.

"What do humans ever fight over?" Fu asks cryptically.

"That's not an answer."

Fu shakes his head slightly. "It's not," he admits. "But I'm afraid you're not going to get anything much better than that."

He pauses again, taking another long drink from his tea. "Papillon's corruption is obvious," Fu says slowly. "Unquestionable. There is no doubt that he is using his Miraculous for evil purposes. But humans are complicated creatures. Not every battle is so clear-cut."

Adrien's eyebrows draw together, low over his eyes. "I see," he says, even though he doesn't.

"It's alright if you don't understand," Fu says, smiling reassuringly at the boy. "Your mother sincerely believed that what she was doing was for the best. My allies and I believed the same. We did not realize our mistakes until it was too late."

Adrien is silent for a moment, mouth moving wordlessly as he searches for the right thing to say.

"You're the one who gave me the ring," he eventually settles on.

Fu nods once. "I did indeed," he confirms.

"Why?" Adrien asks, the question slipping out before he's quite thought it through. On his shoulder, Plagg grows still. "I mean, after what happened with my mother, out of all the people in Paris... why take a risk on me?"

"You were perfect for her," Fu says simply.

Adrien hesitates a moment, confused. "Her?"

"Ladybug. You can feel it, can't you?"

Yes. Even leaving romantic feelings aside, Adrien has never felt closer to anyone before in his entire life. There are some people that get along so well that you might say they were made for each other. But Adrien and Ladybug weren't even like that. She was his other half, in a way that he wasn't sure was even entirely metaphorical. One could not exist without the other. They were push and pull, yin and yang, creation and destruction...

Good luck and bad luck.

"Why her, then?" Adrien asks quietly.

At that, Fu pauses a moment. "Every Miraculous is different," he begins, "and every Miraculous is dangerous. I spent a long time selecting a new wielder for Tikki. After several years of observation, I had a handful of candidates who all would have been equally suitable. In the end, I suppose there was an element of chance."

Because of course there was.

"Why pick new wielders at all?" Adrien presses on. "Why not just guard them all yourself?"

Fu smiles. "You have a good heart, Adrien," he says, pouring himself another cup of tea. "But no man can be trusted with that much power. Not even me."

Plagg curls up closer to Adrien's neck, and Fu's eyes are drawn to the kwami. "It's easy to forget that they are ancient, godlike beings," Fu says pleasantly. "They adopt such charming forms, don't they?"

Adrien snorts. "I don't know if I'd call Plagg charming, exactly," he says and, unusually, Plagg lets the insult go without comment.

Fu lets out a soft chuckle at the jab, but has no response. Adrien lets the lull in the conversation sit for a moment before he dares to ask the question that he really wanted to know the answer to.

"Is my mother still alive?"

Fu glances away, looking solemn. "I don't know."

"Could you... would it be possible for you to find her?"

Fu half-smiles at that. "If I could track any Miraculous on a whim, I would have dealt with Papillon long ago," he says. Adrien grimaces slightly, but the answer isn't really unexpected. " _If_ she still has her Miraculous, and _if_ I were to happen to get close enough, I might be able to narrow down her location to a city. Perhaps even a neighborhood. But our paths have not crossed since that day."

Adrien breathes out slowly and takes a long drink from his tea. When he finally sets the cup back down, Fu is watching him silently, a faint concern clear in his eyes.

"I should have known," he says dryly. He offers Fu a half-hearted smile. "That's just my luck, huh?"

* * *

André Bourgeois had never been loved, but he'd never been hated either. Paris had... tolerated him. He was the consummate politician—all flattering words and thinly veiled threats beneath a veneer of gentility—and while it had never earned him anyone's admiration, it had all been... routine. Expected. Maybe nobody really liked him, but nobody disliked him enough to complain about it.

But now, of course, with formal corruption charges pending against him and a local superheroine only tooglad to hurl insults at Paris's four-time mayor... well. Now everybody _loathed_ Mayor Bourgeois, even—or perhaps, _especially—_ the people who had held their noses and voted for him in the past election.

Chloé had grown accustomed to getting extra attention. To being recognized wherever she went.

She was _not_ accustomed to the cold, accusatory glares that followed her every step.

Chloé leans back heavily in her chair, pretending to read the menu in front of her, but she never gets past the first few lines. It feels like every pair of eyes in the café is on her, and she _swears_ she can hear her own name being whispered in the hushed conversations at nearby tables.

In the seat next to her, Sabrina is oblivious as per usual. She's already decided on her order (salad à la carte, sans dressing) and is blabbering on endlessly, tapping her toes against the floor as she talks. "And I finished your math homework too!" she says. "It was really hard, but after a while I figured it—"

"Do I look like I care?" Chloé cuts in harshly.

Sabrina's smile falls abruptly. Deflating, she mumbles, "I—uh—no, sorry." She adjusts her glasses, awkwardly turning her gaze downward, and falls into silence.

Chloé watches Sabrina for a moment. She feels a pang of... well, something, seeing Sabrina look so downtrodden. It tugs at heartstrings that she didn't know she had. This feeling is suspiciously close to _remorse_ or perhaps even _guilt_ , and if there's one thing that Chloé can't stand, it's being reminded that she's not completely heartless after all.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," Chloé snaps, with the vague hope that she can drown her conscience with still more cruelties. Sabrina sinks down even lower her seat, looking almost as if she's trying to make herself invisible. "Remember that you'd be nothing without me. Nobody else would want to be friends with someone like _you_."

Sabrina won't look at her, but Chloé can tell that she's upset. Possibly even on the verge of crying. This time, instead of guilt, Chloé feels an empty sort of satisfaction. Her heartstrings sufficiently stranged, Chloé returns her attention to her menu.

By the time Adrien finally strolls into the café, fifteen minutes late and damp from the rain, Chloé has actually managed to make it halfway through the menu. The only son of Gabriel Agreste attracts a fair bit of attention himself, and Chloé hears his name repeated several times in nearby conversations, but he scarcely seems to notice the stares. He smiles at Chloé from the front of the room, waving a little at her, and makes his way over, weaving through the crowded room with surprising ease.

"Hey, Chlo," Adrien says, sliding into the chair on her left. "Nice to see you too, Sabrina. Sorry I'm late."

Chloé lifts her drink up, eyeing Adrien curiously, and takes a long, loud sip from it. "You look like shit," she says flatly.

Adrien seems taken aback. Even Sabrina looks a little surprised.

"Green and red?" Chloé continues, gesturing at his outfit. "You look like a Christmas tree."

Adrien glances down at his shirt. "I, uh," he says awkwardly, scratching at the back of his head. "I guess I didn't notice."

Chloé pauses for a moment, grinding her teeth together. Adrien has about as much fashion sense as a Russian coal miner, so she can't really say that she's surprised he tried to pair a red argyle polo with a forest green undershirt, but something about his reaction feels off to her. There are bags under his eyes and there is something strangely distant about his voice.

She doesn't like it.

"What's wrong?" she asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously at Adrien.

Adrien looks confused. "I don't—"

"Don't lie to me," Chloé interrupts. "Is it your father again? The election?"

Adrien's expression wavers. "It's complicated," he says, looking away.

There used to be a time, Chloé thinks, when Adrien wouldn't have tried to hide it from her.

"Are you okay?" Sabrina asks gently, worry furrowing her brow.

"I'm fine—" Adrien starts to say.

"Shut up, Sabrina, no one asked you!" Chloé snaps viciously.

Sabrina jumps slightly in her seat and redirects her gaze downward. Adrien gives Chloé a pointed look, but says nothing.

Chloé is still trying to decide whether she's going to drag the truth out of Adrien or let him sulk on his own when a stroke of bad luck renders the question pointless. A waiter approaching their table, cursed by some combination of clumsiness and misfortune, stumbles slightly as he walks past. A few inches to the left and it wouldn't have mattered—well, not to Chloé, anyway—but as it was, the waiter _was_ not a few inches to the left. Chloé, cursed by some combination of karma and misfortune, ends up with two glasses worth of cherry cola soaking through her yellow silk blouse.

Furious, she rises up to her feet and whirls on the waiter. The waiter shrinks back slightly, apologies on the tip of his tongue.

" _You!_ " she snarls, advancing on him.

* * *

The Ladyblog names this one the _Chevalier Blanc._

Adrien understands why she would, of course. The akumatized man wears bright, shining armor and has a _really_ lovely longsword and an awful lot to say about the death of chivalry (and civilization in general), and how could Alya possibly resist captioning her exclusive video coverage as _Blanc v_ _s_ _. Noir_?

The name feels ominous to him, though.

It starts as a fairly standard fight: Adrien dives over tables and pushes past terrified civilians to find a safe spot to transform. Chloé, despite being the cause of the day's akumatization, manages to wriggle her way out of the restaurant with surprising ease, leaving behind the akumatized waiter with nothing to take his anger out on except a crowd of innocent bystanders.

It's good luck, perhaps, that the Chevalier Blanc is more interested in ranting than actually putting that sword to use. He postures, and he raves, but ultimatelyhe is one of Papillon's less threatening villains.

Well, for the most part, at least...

Ladybug swings into the fray about six minutes post-akumatization, wearing a scowl and exactly one pigtail. The other half of her hair is woven into an elaborate braid.

Chat can't help but smile at the sight, which just prompts Ladybug's scowl to deepen.

"Don't—" she begins curtly.

"You look beautiful as always, my Lady," Chat Noir says.

Ladybug rolls her eyes slightly, but she's more amused than annoyed. "Let's take care of this one quickly," she says, all business. "I promised my best friend that I'd be back soon, and I don't think she's going to appreciate it if I'm gone for hours. Plus I saw the Chevalier Noir on my way over here, and I'd prefer to get this taken care of _before_ he murders somebody."

"No problem," Chat says. "The akuma's in his shield."

Ladybug nods sharply. "Can you keep him busy?"

Chat smirks slightly. "I thought you'd never ask."

Ladybug hurls her yoyo into the sky and swings off, leaving Chat Noir to one-on-one the Chevalier Blanc.

"Over here, garçon!" Chat Noir calls out, as obnoxiously as he can manage. "I think there's a butterfly in my soup!"

The Chevalier Blanc curls one lip. "You don't even have soup!" he bellows, as if this fact alone is grievously offensive to him.

Chat Noir's staff is not, strictly speaking, intended for use as a sword. But Adrien's training is mostly in fencing, and when fighting against a sword-wielding enemy, it works well enough. The balance is a little awkward, and the weapon is much heavier than a sabre, but he thinks that he does pretty well for himself.

And so, naturally, the worst possible thing happens while he's fighting the Chevalier Blanc. Chat Noir miscalculates.

He supposes it's not that unexpected. He is only human, after all. He realizes too late that he's fallen for a feint, and that the Chevalier Blanc's very real sword is just seconds away from—no, _currently_ grazing across his unprotected abdomen, slicing easily through both his suit and his skin, and Chat Noir backs away quickly, one hand pressed to the cut.

It's just a surface wound, but it _hurts_. They never covered this in fencing lessons...

Chat is on the defensive now, losing ground steadily, as the Chevalier Blanc presses his advantage. A few parries later, and his staff is knocked out of his hand, skittering down along the sidewalk.

It's absolutely the wrong reaction to have, but Chat Noir freezes. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for impact and holding out a vain hope that Ladybug will swing in to save him at the last minute...

Well, _somebody_ saves him, all right. A moment passes and Chat dares to crack one eye open. The akumatized villain, miraculously, had decided against finishing him off due to the abrupt appearance of Paris's favorite black knight vigilante—or rather, more to the point, the abrupt apperance a stray crossbow bolt that just barely missed impaling him through the skull.

Chat stands in place for a moment, watching blankly as the Chevalier Noir swaps out his crossbow for a sword and launches himself at his white knight counterpart, running at a full sprint—or, at least, as close to a sprint as one can get while wearing a full suit of armor. After another second, Chat Noir rouses himself from his stupor—he can't just let this guy murder some poor unlucky waiter, after all.

Not that there was any need, as it turned out. By the time Chat Noir finally moves to action, Ladybug has already knocked the akumatized shield out of Blanc's grip and cracked it in two with her bare hands. With a flick of her fingers, the butterfly turns from black to white, Chat Noir's wound is healed, and the waiter is left on the ground, blinking rapidly and suddenly very confused.

The Chevalier Noir lowers his sword. Without another word, he turns as if to leave the scene without another word, and Ladybug watches him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. She's not happy, Chat can tell, but she also can't deny that he was an unexpectedly useful distraction in this fight.

"Wait!" Chat finds himself saying, half-reaching out towards the Chevalier.

Two pairs of eyes slide over to him—Ladybug's, narrowed and worried, and the Chevalier's, impossible to read beneath the grated mask of his helm.

"Thanks," he says, a little awkwardly. He reaches up to scratch at the back of his head. "For, you know..."

The Chevalier Noir hesitates another moment, considering him carefully.

"You should keep your footwork smaller," he suggests, speaking every word slowly and carefully. "It will help you control the distance. You let him get too close."

Adrien's heart skips a beat.

That lecture is too familiar to be a coincidence.

"Thank you," he manages to say, his mouth dry and his pulse fluttery.

The Chevalier stares at him for another long, long moment.

"Until next time," he says politely. He bows his head slightly, and then walks out of the square, clanking faintly with every footstep.

Ladybug waits until the Chevalier is out of earshot before speaking. She spares a glance at the freshly de-akumatized waiter, still kneeling on the ground and looking increasingly like he's on the verge of a panic attack, then slides her gaze back over to Chat.

"What was that about?" she asks quietly, motioning with her head towards the distant figure of the Chevalier.

Chat Noir only shakes his head.

* * *

Ladybug doesn't push the matter at first. Everyone deserves to have some secrets, after all. She knows that better than most people.

But Chat Noir's mood doesn't improve—if anything, he grows gloomier—and by the time Thursday patrol rolls around, she has to admit that she's beginning to get a little worried.

(Not to mention the tiny issue that she's made absolutely no progress with Alya, who is getting ever-closer to figuring out her civilian identity despite Marinette's frantic attempts to dissuade her...)

"You know," Ladybug says, landing beside him at the Notre Dame, "tomorrow will be our nine month anniversary. What do you think of that?"

Chat Noir shakes his head slowly. He's staring out blankly at the Seine, lost in thought. Instead of making some light-hearted pun or trying to flirt with her, he admits softly, "I don't know."

Ladybug purses her lips. "You know," she admits, "I kind of thought that we would have defeated Papillon by now."

Chat nods once, to show that he heard, but says nothing.

The evening is quiet. _Too_ quiet, really. Much as Ladybug is loathe to admit it, some of those things that her detractors have been saying are a little bit true. Paris in mid-June should have been overflowing with tourists, filled with people from every corner of the globe and conversations in dozens of languages. Instead, the streets are empty and silent. Even the locals mostly keep to themselves, going out only when necessary. Ladybug could see only a handful of brave souls walking down sidewalks that should have been swarmed with crowds.

"I think," Chat Noir says slowly, "that someone may have figured out my identity."

Ladybug stiffens. "Who?"

Chat hesitates a moment, muscles twitching on his jaw. Ladybug is already imagining dozens of worst-case scenarios when he finally answers. "The Chevalier Noir."

"The—the _Chevalier_ _?!_ " Ladybug splutters. "How!?"

Chat Noir shakes his head slightly. "I can't explain without telling you who I am," he says cautiously. He glances over at her tentatively, green eyes glittering in the evening light. "Do you still want to know?"

For a brief second, Ladybug feels a flicker of panic, like someone reached into her chest and _squeezed_.

A part of her—the part of her that's currently quaking in terror—wants to know everything. The Chevalier is no friend of theirs, and she can only imagine what kind of trouble that he'll bring if he really does know Chat's civilian identity. What kind of havoc could he wreak with that information?

Another part of her—the part of her that's a superhero first and a scared teenage girl later—assesses the situation with a cold critical eye and says, voice level, "No. Are you sure that he knows?"

Chat Noir bites down on the inside of his cheek, contemplative. "He hasn't done anything yet."

"But will he?"

Chat shakes his head slightly. "I don't know," he answers honestly.

Ladybug exhales slowly.

A part of her wants to confide in him about Alya, and the Ladyblog, and about how _very_ close her best friend is coming to outing her own identity as well. But she can't risk letting Chat know that Alya's on the right track.

So she forces a tight smile, and says, "Well, if he knows, then he hasn't outed you yet. All we can do now is hope that our luck holds."

Chat Noir hardly looks comforted. But he shrugs a little and mumbles, "I suppose you're right."

Ladybug really hopes that she is.

* * *

 _He knows_.

On Friday, D'Argencourt cancels their fencing lesson again. Nathalie feeds him some story about a family emergency that Adrien smiles and nods along to, but his stomach feels like lead.

The words swirl around in his head, stark and cold and terrifying. _He **knows**_.

Plagg, unhelpfully, has no real advice to offer him.

"Someone usually figures it out eventually," his kwami says, sounding unbothered. "Either it'll all end in disaster... or it won't! No sense in agonizing over it. Slow down a little bit. Enjoy some cheese. This Pont l'Évêque is _excellent_..."

Adrien glowers a little bit at Plagg. "It smells like a sewer," he says.

"Suit yourself," Plagg says, devouring another wedge.

Adrien spends about thirty seconds watching his kwami eat the sewer-cheese, before deciding that he's going to need more of a distraction to get through the day.

He eventually settles on a trip to the library and ends up piling all his schoolbooks into his backpack. Plagg looks skeptical, but Adrien shepherds him and his cheese into the backpack as well, and after a quick check-in with Nathalie he's on his way.

Unfortunately, it seems half of Paris has also decided that they would love to spend the day at the library. He supposes that it makes sense, with the _brevet_ just two weeks away, but the sheer number of people in the library makes it awfully difficult for him to find a quiet little corner where he can sulk in peace.

He's still looking for an empty table or study carrel when a familiar voice startles him.

"I'm not saying that you're wrong," Marinette was saying, "but maybe you're jumping to conclusions too fast. There are a lot of reasons... um... a lot of reasons why..."

She trails off. Adrien steps around the corner, and is surprised to see that she's sitting alone.

Marinette taps her pencil against the table, and after another pause, goes to scratch down something on a sheet of notebook paper.

"A... lot... of... reasons," she says slowly, writing the words down one at a time, "the... akumas... might... be..."

Adrien finds himself smiling.

"Helping Alya with her blog?" he asks.

Marinette jumps up in her seat, visibly startled. She whirls around to look at him, and all at once her face turns bright red.

"Oh, Adrien!" she squeaks. "Yes, it's about the Alyablog—I mean, Alya's blog—I was just—um—you know, going over s-s-some..."

She trails off, looking mortified. Adrien feels a stab of guilt.

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly. "I shouldn't have interrupted."

"No!" Marinette blurts out loudly, gathering the attention of a few nearby students. Marinette's face grows redder and she whispers, more quietly, "No, no, you're fine—I mean, it's fine—I mean—"

Adrien furrows his brow slightly. He's half-afraid that he's overstepping a boundary, but...

"Mind if I sit with you?" Adrien asks casually. He flashes her a nervous smile.

Marinette's eyes go wide.

"Y-yes," she says, nodding her head a few times. "I mean—no! I mean—I wouldn't mind at all, um, please have a seat."

Marinette gestures awkwardly with her hands at the open seats around the table. Adrien presses one hand to his lips, trying and mostly failing to suppress a laugh, and slides into the chair across from her.

"Alya's pretty intense about that Ladybug stuff, huh?" Adrien asks.

Marinette groans softly and buries her face in her arms.

"I wish she wasn't," she mutters bitterly. Her stutter has mysteriously vanished.

"Oh?" Adrien asks.

"She's so... reckless," Marinette says, propping her head up on one hand. "I feel like she doesn't understand how _dangerous_ the things that she's getting involved with are! And now she's trying to out Ladybug's civilian identity—ughh!"

Adrien hesitates a moment. "It's natural that she would be curious," he says carefully.

"Curious, sure," Marinette says, gesturing with her free hand. "But doesn't she realize how dangerous it would be if Ladybug's civilian identity got out? Not just for Ladybug—for her friends, her family, everyone around her."

Adrien nods along, knowing that she's right, even if he doesn't particularly like hearing it.

"But Alya doesn't care about that," Marinette continues, one hand curling into a fist. "She doesn't think about consequences! She's just so—"

Marinette cuts off, making a gurgling sound of frustration. She throws both her hands up into the air, to demonstrate just how much it bothers her, and Adrien can't help but laugh a little.

Marinette freezes in place. "Was that—was that weird?" she asks, suddenly nervous again.

Adrien shakes his head. "No!" he says quickly. "I've just... never seen you get so animated like that before." He looks away, flushing slightly. "It's... kind of cute."

Marinette makes a high-pitched, shrill sound. "C-cute?"

"I mean—no, not cute!" Adrien says quickly, suddenly afraid that he's offended her. "Nope, not cute at all."

All at once, the blood seems to drain out of Marinette's face. "It's... not?" she asks, voice small.

"I mean—yes. Yes, you're very cute." Adrien gestures helplessly with his hands, practically flailing. He thinks he might hear a faint snicker from the direction of his schoolbag. "But not like children or kittens are cute! You're cute in way that's—that's not patronizing.

Some of the color returns to Marinette's cheeks. "I..." she says awkwardly. "Um."

Adrien buries his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he says, only he's talking through his fingers, so it comes out more like _mmm_ _owwee._ "I'm not—I was homeschooled until this year, you know. I'm not... good at this."

Marinette laughs a little, which gives him enough courage to lift his head. "Not good at what?"

"This," Adrien says, holding his hands out in front of him. "Talking to people without offending them."

She laughs again. "I'm not offended," she says, looking away nervously. "You could never..."

Adrien's heart feels strangely light in his chest. "Really?"

"Really," Marinette says. Her flush grows deeper, and she forces out an awkward laugh. "I mean, um..."

"I just," Adrien says, also looking away, "I've always kind of thought that you..."

Marinette watches him with a strange expression. "That I?" she prompts, almost nervously.

"That you were still mad," Adrien admits. He finds himself looking away again. "About, you know... when we first met."

Marinette's still got a strange expression. She shakes her head wordlessly.

They fall into an awkward silence, neither one of them quite able to meet the other's eye.

It's probably a bad idea, but the words come tumbling out of Adrien's mouth before he can quite stop them.

"Do you want to hang out some time?" Adrien asks, unprompted. Marinette glances over at him, eyes gone wide. "I mean—you don't have to. Well, of course you don't have to! It's just—this whole friendship thing. It's still kind of new for me, and..."

Adrien trails off. Marinette is watching him with a strange, soft expression that he doesn't know how to name. It's making his heart flutter in strange ways and he doesn't understand why.

"Yes," Marinette says softly, all traces of her previous awkwardness vanished into nothing. "I would love to."

Adrien thinks that he should probably answer her, or at least say something, but instead he finds himself drawn into her eyes. He's staring right into them, and she's staring back, and he wonders if it would be inappropriate to reach out and brush her hair our of her eyes...

Marinette's phone beeps, abruptly ruining the moment.

Marinette fumbles nervously for her cell phone, and swipes on the screen to unlock it. "Oh no—it' s Alya," she says. She stands up and starts shoveling her belongings into her schoolbag. "I've got to go—um—sorry to cut things short—"

"No, don't worry about it, it's not a problem at all," Adrien says quickly. "I'll, uh, see you later?"

"Yeah!" Marinette says quickly, bobbing her head up and down. "Totally. Um, yeah."

And with that, Marinette sweeps out of the room with all the grace of a flightless bird, tripping slightly on her own feet as she makes her way out.

* * *

A part of Marinette wants to say, _Okay, Alya, this better be good because I was just having a really great time with love-of-my-life Adrien Agreste!_

But Marinette doesn't say that, of course. She's spent the better part of a week trying to dissuade Alya from pursuing Ladybug's civilian identity, and sometimes a girl just has to admit that there are more important things in her life than finally managing to get through a coherent conversation with the boy that she likes.

"Sooo, Alya," Marinette begins tentatively. "I've been thinking some more about Ladybug's civilian identity, and I think that you might be on the wrong track..."

"No time for that!" Alya says, snapping her head up. Marinette thinks for a moment that Alya might be mad at her, but Alya waves one hand dismissively at her. "That's great, but I'm working on something _way_ bigger right now, so tell me about it later!"

Marinette freezes in place, furrowing her brow. "Bigger than Ladybug's civilian identity?"

Alya shrugs one shoulder. "Okay, maybe not," Alya admits. She flips through a few pages of her notes, searching for a particular page. "I mean, definitely not. But whatever! I'm finally making some progress on this historical Ladybug stuff, and it is the _coolest_ thing ever and I need you to listen to me freak out for a while."

Marinette hesitates a second. She's not sure whether she should count her blessings or be more worried about what kind of wild theories Alya has cooked up this time.

"You remember that Egyptian magic goddess, Isis?" Alya asks, after a beat.

 _No_ , Marinette thinks.

"Yeah?" Marinette says, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.

"I've been doing some more research on her," Alya says, flipping through some of her notes. She eventually finds what she's looking for, and passes a stack of papers over to Marinette. "I think Adrien really was on the right track. Look at this!"

Marinette looks, brow furrowed.

"Saint-Germain-des-Prés was the site of an ancient Lutetian temple to the Egyptian goddess Isis," she reads aloud. She blinks a few times. "Uhh... are you sure that's real? This kind of sounds like one of those Mayan apocalypse conspiracy theories..."

"No, no," Alya says quickly. "Well, yes, but—never mind." She leans over Marinette's shoulder, pointing lower on the page. "Down here, look at the picture!"

Marinette looks.

"I don't get it," she admits.

"That's a two-thousand year old statuette from Ptolemaic Egypt!" Alya explains breathlessly.

"Uh-huh," Marinette says, nodding along as if she actually understands what "Ptolemaic" is supposed to mean.

"That's it, Marinette!" Alya continues on. "The missing link! I mean, sort of. I mean—well, it's the hybrid goddess Isis-Tyche, anyway."

Marinette pauses, tilting her head slightly to one side. "Who...?" she asks, voice tight.

"Isis-Tyche," Alya repeats. Seeing Marinette's confusion, she flips through her notes again. "Tyche was the Greek goddess of luck," she explains. "But she was also called—and this is where it gets weird—the 'Protectress of Cities.' Sound like anybody else you know?"

 _Yes_ , Marinette thinks. _Tyche_ and _Tikki_ sound awfully similar, don't they?

"It gets better," Alya continues, blind to Marinette's chagrin. "Tyche was worshipped basically _everywhere_ in the Mediterranean, but in every city she was a little bit different. In Rome, she was merged with _their_ luck goddess into Tyche-Fortuna. In Turkey, she was merged with Cybele. In Alexandria she was Amazonian, and in Beirut she was Phoenician! In some places, she was even a _dude_."

Marinette stares blankly at the page before her.

She knew that Tikki—Tyche— _whatever_ , was old. She knew that there were other Ladybugs that came before her. That some of them, probably, had worked their way into history books.

She had never quite imagined that Alya's goddess theory would turn out to be right after all. Especially not after Tikki had _specifically denied_ that there was any truth in it.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Alya continues, holding up her hands. "You might say that it's normal that were would be some regional variations in religion. _Except_ I have this account from a Greek historian, who says that a girl named Calliope was sacrificed to purify the city of Antioch, and later their Tyche statue was built in her likeness, so I'm thinking—"

"Wait— _sacrified?"_ Marinette interrupts.

Alya pauses briefly, looking taken aback. "Well, yeah," she mumbles. "That Miraculous stuff is really dangerous, you know. I don't think she was literally sacrificed—it's like... a metaphor. You know?"

Become a superhero, die for your city, get a statue of yourself built.

 _Yeah_ , Marinette thinks. That sounds believable.

Alya's still talking, but Marinette is scarcely listening anymore.

 _Your friend Alya certainly has a talent for jumping to conclusions_ , Tikki had told her. And then Tikki had smiled and reassured her gently and been lying through her teeth the entire time.

Tyche. Tikki.

She wonders what else Tikki has lied to her about.

"—inette? Marinette? Oh, c'mon girl, are you even listening to me anymore?"

Marinette blinks a few times, jerked back into the moment.

"Sorry, Alya," she apologizes quickly. "I guess I'm just... tired."

Marinette offers her a half-hearted smile that Alya regards with silent suspicion. But after a few beats, Alya nods slightly.

"Yeah, I understand," she says. "We can hang out more over summer vacation, yeah?"

"Yeah," Marinette says.

"And try to actually get some sleep this weekend!" Alya continues. "Don't let your parents overwork you in the bakery! And—"

"Thanks, Alya," Marinette says, genuinely grateful. "You too."

As Marinette leaves, there's a storm of emotions churning uncomfortably in her gut.

She doesn't say anything at first. She walks back home, silently climbs the steps up to her family's apartment and then up to her bedroom.

She cracks open her purse, and Tikki floats out, stern-faced and quiet.

"So, Tikki," Marinette says. "You want to tell me why you share a name with an Ancient Greek goddess?"

* * *

 **A/N: Everything Alya says about Isis-Tyche-Fortuna in this chapter is at least sort of true.**

 **Some of the things she mentions are either apocryphal or unverifiable, but Tyche (pronounced TY-kee by most English speakers, roughly TEE-hee in Modern Greek, and confession time this scene does not really make sense in French) really was a very popular pick as the patron goddess of ancient and medieval Mediterranean cities such as Antioch and Constantinople. For that reason, Tyche is also known as the "Protectress of Cities," and is often depicted symbolically wearing the city's walls as a crown.**


	13. o hateful life

**content warning:** **the fight scene in this chapter is pretty brutal. violence, gore, body horror, dark thematic material.  
**

* * *

"You already know why, Marinette," she says. There is no tenderness in her voice.

Tikki looks up to meet Marinette's gaze. Those bright blue eyes used to seem so innocent and guileless, but now Marinette can only think that they look _old_. She had always thought that Tikki was cute—big-eyed and cuddly, more like a cartoonish stuffed animal than a real ladybug. But now that all melts away, a pierced glamour that can no longer sustain itself. The Tikki that she sees now is a monstrous creature, ancient beyond human comprehension, caught halfway between _bug_ and _fairy_. There is nothing cute about those gauzy wings, protruding mandibles, uncannily human eyes.

Her kwami isn't a benevolent sprite or a guardian angel. It isn't even a _person_. Tikki is Good Luck itself—dispassionate, indiscriminate, unsentimental.

"Tikki, Tykki," the kwami says slowly, each word heavy in its mouth. "Tykkeh, Tukka, Dukka. Human languages are as changeable and inconstant as humans themselves. I have had many names, Marinette. Is it really such a surprise that I shared one of them with a goddess?"

In retrospect, it seems obvious.

"Was she named after you?" Marinette asks, voice hard. "Or were you named after her?"

Tikki stares at her, unblinking. "Does it matter?"

 _No_ , Marinette thinks. It really doesn't.

"You lied to me," Marinette says. Tikki looks unbothered by the accusations, and it makes Marinette's heart clench. "I asked you _directly_ , and you told me that Alya was wrong."

"I told you that you didn't need to worry about it," Tikki says flatly. "That was the truth."

Marinette shakes her head slowly, still unable to reconcile the creature before her with the compassionate friend and confidant that had always been by her side. It's like she doesn't even know Tikki anymore.

"You were misleading me on purpose," Marinette says, feeling stung. "You _know_ how I feel about lying, Tikki. Why would you..."

She trails off, and Tikki's eyes soften sympathetically. "Oh, Marinette," the kwami says gently, its entire demeanor shifted. "Sometimes you lie too. You know that sometimes we _need_ to lie. I was only trying to protect you."

For a moment, Marinette almost believes her.

"Protect me from what?" Marinette asks coldly. "The truth?"

"You are young," Tikki says, as if that is enough answer in and of itself.

"But old enough to save a city, apparently!" Marinette shoots back.

"You are more a child than you realize." Marinette takes half a step back, feeling strangely wounded, and Tikki looks away. "I take no joy in lying to you, Marinette. But there are some truths that are best left untold."

Marinette stares at her kwami, disbelieving. Then she falls back heavily onto her chaise.

"We don't mean anything to you, do we?" she says. It is not a question.

"I care," Tikki says. It is not an answer.

"You didn't want me to learn about past Ladybugs," Marinette says. "Why? What happened to them?" When Tikki remains silent, Marinette scoffs. "Do you even remember?"

"Of course I remember," Tikki says softly. "I remember all of my humans."

"Did they die? Is that why you didn't want me digging around?"

"All humans die eventually, Marinette."

Marinette clenches her teeth together. "How many of them got killed because of you?"

Tikki's eyes flit over towards Marinette, then away again. A few long moments pass as the kwami composes its thoughts, tapping one jointed leg against Marinette's desk.

"Many of them," it admits calmly. "Some wielded their Miraculous for decades. Others only a few days."

The worst part, Marinette thinks, is how apathetic her kwami sounds about it. Like none of their deaths upset Tikki at all.

"Now that you know this," Tikki continues, in the same smooth monotone, "does it change your decision? Would you give the Miraculous to someone else?"

"Of course not," Marinette says, scoffing. "Papillon is still out there."

"So you have made your choice," Tikki says. "Jeanne made her choice too. So did Nizam, and Calliope, and Jezebel.

"You knew from the start, Marinette, that this was dangerous work. But you decided to do it anyway. There was no need to burden you with the knowledge of what happened to your predecessors."

Marinette sits down heavily, crossing her arms over her chest.

Maybe none of this should be surprising to her. But she feels _hurt_. She'd trusted Tikki, and Tikki had repayed her trust with half-truths and lies by omission. All that sweetness, all those kind words...

Tikki sighs heavily. "Oh, Marinette. I _do_ care, you know I do—"

"Don't," Marinette interrupts, her tone sharp. Tikki fall into silence. "You know how I feel about lying," she repeats.

After a pause, Tikki says, "Very well then."

Marinette quietly glowers at Tikki for a moment longer, not sure what she should think of the creature. Now that she can see the kwami for what it really is—both literally and metaphorically—she feels... somehow smaller. Humbled. How had she _ever_ mistaken this centuries-old being for something humanlike?

A slight shiver runs up Marinette's spine as she sits. At first, she thinks nothing of it. But something in Tikki's expression shifts slightly, and Marinette feels a faint twinge of worry deep in her belly.

"An akuma?" she asks hesitantly. But even before she has finished asking the question, she knows what the answer will be.

Tikki locks eyes with Marinette.

"It's Chat Noir," Tikki says curtly. "He needs you."

* * *

Chat Noir stands in the shadows, perched delicately on an eave near the corner of Rue de Rivoli and

Avenue Victoria. This intersection, at the heart of Paris's 21st arrondissement, was once among the most crowded places in the city. Now it is deathly silent, empty save for a single black-armored man who strides purposefully down the center of the street.

The Chevalier Noir has reduced his usual arsenal for today, carrying with him only a single sword. The few passers-by who are out on the streets of Paris give him a wide berth, and refuse to meet his eye.

If this bothers the Chevalier, he shows no sign of it. He keeps walking, unperturbed, with an almost unsettling air of calm. Chat Noir follows him, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. They cross the Seine and enter the Latin Quarter, where there are more people out on the streets, and Chat has to navigate more carefully to remain out of their sight. He almost loses the Chevalier twice, but at just the right moments the Chevalier slows down long enough for Chat to catch up to him again.

The Chevalier navigates carefully through parks and university campuses and residential areas, and at long last comes to a stop in from of a very ordinary looking building along Rue Monge. On his left is a tourist-trap of a restaurant. On his right, a hotel.

And, directly in front of him, an innocuous-looking arch. Dozens of native Parisians pass by every day without so much as glancing at it. The inscription at the top, engraved in pseudo-Roman capitals, reads: _ARENES DE LVTECE._

The Chevalier passes under the arch, and Chat follows overhead. He lingers on the rooftops and watches the Chevalier enter the park that's hidden on the other side. Stretching out in front of him is a wide circle that has been cut into the earth, surrounded half by weathered ruins and half by recreated stone terraces.

Two thousand years ago, the Romans had used the Arènes de Lutèce to stage gladiatorial combats. Nowadays, it's just a public park, one of the dozens of lesser-known Parisian monuments. The ancient arena is home to sports games and small festivals, and despite its long history there were surprisingly few people in Paris who even knew that it existed...

The Chevalier meanders slowly towards the center of the amphitheater, the only person in the park, the moonlight glinting off his armor. His casts his eyes up towards the sky, but doesn't turn around.

"Why don't you come out of the shadows, Adrien?" he calls up.

Chat Noir takes a few running steps, and leaps down into the amphitheater. He lands on all fours, a safe distance away from the Chevalier, and straightens out slowly.

"How did you know?" he asks quietly.

There's a breath of laughter from the Chevalier, muffled by his helmet. "You wield your staff like a fencing sabre," he says, "and there aren't that many left-handed sabreurs in Paris. Even fewer with your skill."

The Chevalier hesitates a moment, then reaches up to remove his helmet. He tosses the helmet aside, and it rolls across the arena, eventually settling at the bottom of the terraces. He turns around slowly to face Adrien, and it only confirms what he'd already known.

"Once I realized who you were," D'Argencourt continues, "it suddenly seemed so obvious. _Of course_ you were Adrien. Your face, your mannerisms, your technique... I wondered how I could have missed it for so long. But I suppose that's part of the magic, isn't it?"

Chat doesn't answer.

D'Argencourt cracks a small, self-deprecating smile. "People can stare right at you and still not recognize who you are. Much more convenient than disguising yourself in a suit of armor."

He takes a few steps, then sets one hand lightly on his sword. It's a small gesture, but the threat is clear.

"I always liked you, Adrien," he says sincerely. "I don't want to hurt you. So why don't you give me that ring of yours?"

* * *

That's what it's always been about, hasn't it?

What could you do, with the power of destruction at your fingertips? How much could you accomplish as the vessel for the god of bad luck?

Chat Noir is a nice enough boy, of course. But his heart is too soft. He's just a child. Wouldn't the power of destruction be much more potent in the hands of somebody who is willing to _use_ it?

Papillon is not the only one with a thirst for power, you know.

* * *

Chat Noir doesn't refuse outright. He hesitates, giving the question a moment's consideration. D'Argencourt's expression grows strained.

Finally, Chat speaks. "Why?" he asks softly.

D'Argencourt scoffs. "Adrien, you cannot be serious—"

" _Why?_ " Chat asks again, louder this time.

D'Argencourt seems taken aback. His frown deepens, and he steps back slightly. But he does explain.

"You are fourteen years old," he says. "You are not old enough to vote, or buy alcohol, or drive a car. You cannot expect that I would allow you to keep gallivanting about as you are."

"Most of Paris doesn't seem to have a problem with it."

"Because they're afraid," D'Argencourt says, eyes flashing, "and selfish, and ignorant. Bourgeois is too much of a coward to deal with Papillon himself, so he has children do his dirty work for him. But things cannot go on this way. It's been nearly a year now, and you're no closer to stopping Papillon. All you've managed so far is damage control. Let _me_ take the ring, Adrien, and I will be able to fight him better than you can."

Chat would be lying if he said the offer wasn't tempting. But he shakes his head slowly.

"You would kill them," he says. "The akuma victims."

D'Argencourt forces a tight-lipped smile. "Adrien," he says kindly, "you have to understand. Those people are not innocent. I don't wish them any harm, but when they succumb to their dark temptations, there are going to be consequences. You can't save everyone."

"Ladybug can," Chat counters, a little petulantly. "She always has."

"Ladybug is a child!" D'Argencourt snaps, his composure beginning to slip away. "It's naive to think you can go on fighting that way."

"It's compassion," Chat says sharply.

"It's _weakness!_ "

D'Argencourt's words echo slightly around the park. Chat Noir is silent for a moment, contemplative, as his eyes flit around the darkened arena. It is completely empty, save for them. If anyone overheard D'Argencourt's outburst, they didn't come to investigate it.

After a pause, Chat speaks softly. "I want to believe you," he says, because he does. "But I'm afraid that you would use these powers for evil."

Anger flashes in D'Argencourt's eyes. "I would use it to rid Paris of _monsters_."

"They're people," Chat says. "Human beings."

D'Argencourt shakes his head slowly, lips curling into a sneer. "I should have known that you would be too naive to understand," he says coldly. "I am not asking anymore. If you will not hand that ring over to me I will _take_ it from you."

D'Argencourt has hardly finished the sentence before he launches into his first attack. Chat Noir parries it easily with his staff, more out of habit than conscious thought, knocking the blade away. D'Argencourt attacks twice more, feints low, then makes an honest attempt to bury his sword in Chat Noir's chest.

Chat manages to evade the attack, dodging backwards, but it's a bit of a startle nonetheless.

This is nothing like fencing practice. For one thing, D'Argencourt isn't usually trying to actually hurt him. For another, his staff makes a poor substitute for a real sword. The balance is wrong, and his grip is off—he'd never really realized until now that he had no idea how to use this thing.

"Can't we talk about this?" Chat tries desperately, barely managing to keep up with the pace of the battle.

"We already have," D'Argencourt says, taking another swing at him.

This time, Chat is just a hair too slow. He raises his staff to block D'Argencourt's blade, but doesn't quite manage to stop it before it draws blood, grazing across his left thigh. Chat swears under his breath and tries to back away, but D'Argencourt presses on, each strike coming quicker than the last.

Another slice catches him in the bicep. The next, a barely-there nick along his gut. A third attack knocks his weapon out of his hands, and his staff clatters as it rolls away.

Cursing under his breath, Chat Noir ducks under the next attack, and D'Argencourt's sword swings through the empty air above his head. Chat Noir rolls away, tumbling gracefully towards the far side of the ancient arena, and once he's on his feet again, he makes a dash for the tiered seating that surrounds them.

"You can't run!" D'Argencourt calls out. Chat dodges to the right, and D'Argencourt's sword rings noisily as it hits stone. "I know who you are now! I will be able to find you, wherever you go!"

Well, that sounds delightful.

Running might not be a viable long-term plan, but Chat Noir keeps running anyway. The added agility from his transformation is to keep him just barely ahead of the armor-laden D'Argencourt, leading him in a game of cat and mouse as they climb up and down the aging stonework of the Arènes. When Chat has finally managed to circle back around to his fallen staff, he dives to the ground, scooping it up and whirling back around the face D'Argencourt.

D'Argencourt pauses a moment, breathing heavily.

"Give it up, Adrien," he says. "I don't want to hurt you anymore."

"Then stop," Chat Noir says.

D'Argencourt swings again, and this time Chat Noir raises up his staff in a steady two-handed grip to deflect the blow. D'Argencourt feints high and Chat sidesteps him, twirling his staff between his hands to swipe D'Argencourt's legs out from underneath him.

My some miracle, it actually works. D'Argencourt topples, bested by a move that would _definitely_ be illegal in sabre fencing, and his sword falls to the ground. Chat Noir kicks it away.

On the ground, D'Argencourt is laughing dryly.

"Congratulations," he says, in a way that doesn't sound congratulatory at all. "You've defeated me."

Chat doesn't answer that. His thoughts are all a jumble right now, and they are not helped by the faint sting of pain from the wounds that D'Argencourt managed to inflict on him. His mind is racing as he tries to figure out what he's going to do next. And what is he going to tell _Ladybug?_

D'Argencourt grows visibly impatient at Chat's silence. "Well, don't just stand there," he says gruffly. "You know there's only one way this fight can end."

Chat hesitates. "I don't understand," he says slowly.

D'Argencourt's eyes darken.

"You do understand," he says quietly.

The worst part, Adrien thinks, is that he _does_ understand.

"It doesn't have to be like this," he tries, extending one hand out plaintively towards D'Argencourt. "We don't have to fight. We could—"

In a surprisingly quick motion, D'Argencourt leaps up to his feet and lunges at him, reaching for his right hand. Reaching for the ring. Chat Noir draws back, but that hardly seems to deter D'Argencourt. Caught off guard, D'Argencourt manages to tackle the Chat Noir to the ground, relying on his heavier weight against the superhero's greater strength, and pins him down.

"Stop it!" Chat Noir says, even as D'Argencourt keeps scrabbling for the ring. " _Stop—_ "

D'Argencourt's fingers finally managed to lock around the ring, and just as Chat begins to feel it sliding down his finger, he clocks D'Argencourt solidly in the jaw with his left fist.

D'Argencourt hisses in pain, drawing back, and Chat Noir manages to find the leverage to push him off.

But D'Argencourt isn't holding back. Even weaponless, he's in this fight to the bitter end. Before Chat can get back onto his feet, D'Argencourt throws himself at the boy again, hands curled into fists.

After the first blow, Adrien feels like he's spinning. After the second, he's back on the ground.

D'Argencourt steps over to where he's fallen, and reaches for the ring. Chat snatches his right hand back and makes a half-hearted swipe at D'Argencourt with the other. His claws catch him just under his chin, leaving four thin, red lines of blood across the side of his neck. D'Argencourt hisses and draws slightly back. He reaches for a fistful of hair instead, and Chat hisses as D'Argencourt drags his head back roughly.

D'Argencourt seems to have forgotten about the ring now. Instead of reaching for Chat's unguarded hand, he slams his fist into Chat's face, again and again. Spots of blackness flash across his vision. Chat weakly tries to fight him off, scrabbling desperately against his arms, but D'Argencourt hardly seems to notice. He draws back his hand again, landing another heavy blow against his jaw, and this time Chat Noir feels something shatter.

Maybe this fight had started over the Miraculous. But now, in the heat of battle, D'Argencourt is interested in only one thing: proving a point.

Adrien doesn't know if he's going to be able to survive another hit.

The whole world seems to move in slow motion. D'Argencourt is pulling his fist back again. Chat Noir reaches out and grabs at one of his arms, claws scratching into metallic armor.

" _CATACLYSM!"_ he shrieks desperately.

And then for a moment everything goes very, very quiet.

D'Argencourt staggers backwards. Chat Noir sits up slightly, watching him with huge, horror-struck eyes. His entire left arm and a sizable portion of his chest have been obliterated entirely out of existence. Blood wells up along the seams to fill the empty space where they used to be, coating his armor in dark red and splattering softly onto the ground below.

"Shit," D'Argencourt says blankly. "I didn't think you had that in you."

Then he collapses, falling first to his knees and then flopping forward onto his face. He hits the ground with a sickening thud, and lies motionless in the dust.

* * *

Ladybug sees Chat Noir first. He's dragged himself out of the pit of the amphitheater and is sitting on one of the weathered stone terraces, covered in blood. It's on his hands, in his hair, streaked at the corner of his mouth where he tried to wipe it away. His suit is damaged, sliced open in some places and torn in others, and there's a lump on his jaw that has swollen so large it might be comedic if it didn't hurt so badly.

"Oh my god," she breathes out, rushing to his side. At her words, Chat shifts slightly to face her, and she can see that his eyes are nearly swollen shut, covered in inky black bruises. "What _happened_ to you?"

Healing magic is flowing out of her hands before she even reaches him. Pink light wraps around him, soft and warm, and Chat Noir breathes out heavily as her cure begins to take effect. Bruises fade, broken bones knit themselves back together, and his shattered jaw realigns itself. Even his suit is fixed, the fabric joining seamlessly back together.

He still feels sick to his stomach, but he guesses that isn't really something she can fix.

"Chat Noir?" she asks softly, reaching out to him. Her fingers brush against his arm, tentative, and Chat leans in toward her, resting his head against her collarbone. Ladybug holds him, arms wrapped lightly around his shoulders, rubbing her thumb in circles on his back. She's trembling slightly, but her voice is smooth. "What happened, _chaton?_ "

"The Chevalier," he whispers hoarsely.

Ladybug takes half a step back, looking stricken. "Where is he?" she asks, her voice gone low and dangerous.

At that, Chat Noir finds himself laughing. Once he starts, he can't stop. Each rumble of laughter, harsh and bitter, feels heavy and painful somewhere in his chest but the laughter keeps coming, and Chat realizes that he's slipping into shock or hysteria or something equally as concerning. Ladybug's brow furrows in confusion.

When the laughter finally dies away, Chat shakes his head slowly. "Oh, Ladybug," he says softly, half-delirious. " _Ma_ _coccinelle_. I messed up. I messed up _bad_."

Ladybug's confusion grows, lines creasing her forehead. She takes another step away from him, eyes scanning the arena until finally she spots the body, lying half-submerged in a pool of blood.

She takes a few steps towards it, looking dazed.

"Miraculous Cure," she whispers, holding her hands out towards the body. As healing light engulfs D'Argencourt's corpse, his body is restored—his armor scrubbed clean of blood, his missing limb restored. Even the scratches on his neck fade into nothing.

But he remains quite thoroughly dead.

"Miraculous Cure," Ladybug repeats, her voice stronger this time. She wavers slightly from the exertion of her magic, but nothing changes.

"Ladybug..." Chat says.

"MIRACULOUS CURE!" she shouts, growing slightly desperate.

Chat Noir grabs her lightly by the wrist. "It's no use," he says. "You can't..."

Ladybug jerks away from him. For a moment, Chat's afraid that she'll keep trying to heal him, that she'll run herself into exhaustion fighting a battle that she can never win. But instead she turns back to face him, pale white, mouth strained.

"What do we do?" she asks him, voice trembling.

She doesn't look like a superhero, not now. She looks like a child, frightened and desperate and helpless.

 _Maybe D'Argencourt was right after all_ , Adrien thinks bitterly.

Out loud, he says hoarsely, "I don't know."


	14. strike down the strong

The post goes up on the Ladyblog at midnight. Marinette reaches for her phone with trembling hands.

 _CHAT KILLS CHEVALIER_ , reads the headline in big, bold letters.

Bile rises up in the back of Marinette's throat. She clicks on the link to bring up the full post, but she can't make it past the title, past that single damning line. Tikki watches intently, but does not speak.

Marinette turns off her phone.

She wants to ask Tikki for help, or advice, or comfort or reassurance or _something_. But their last conversation is still all too vivid in her mind, and the kwami—true to its word—makes no attempt to lie. Tikki does not pretend to be upset, or distressed, or to have any feelings at all.

"So," Marinette finally says, her voice low and dull. "Has this kind of thing happened before?"

"Yes," Tikki says.

Marinette nods a few times, mulling that over. _Yes_ , she thinks. How many thousands of years has Tikki been alive? Of course it's happened.

"The other Ladybugs," Marinette continues slowly. "What did they do?"

"They did what they needed to," Tikki answers. "Sometimes they did nothing. Sometimes they fought against their Chat Noirs. And sometimes they were the ones who had been Cataclysm-ed out of existence."

At that, Marinette's eyes go wide. The thought of Chat Noir using Cataclysm against her makes her skin crawl. Even _thinking_ it feels profoundly wrong, and a shudder runs down her spine.

Something in Tikki's expression softens slightly. "That was very rare," the kwami adds, its tone gentler now. "It hasn't happened in a thousand years."

The logical thing to do, Marinette thinks, would be to ask for Tikki's advice about what they should do next. Tikki's been doing this Ladybug thing a lot longer than she has, and probably has several thousand years worth of valuable insights to offer. But Marinette—stubborn creature that she is—can't stand the thought of asking Tikki for help after all the lies her kwami's told her.

Then she forces herself to swallow her pride and ask anyway.

"What do you think we should do?" she asks, trying to keep her voice even. A hint of an edge creeps into her tone nonetheless.

Tikki hesitates a moment before answering, and then lets out a long, slow sigh. Marinette narrows her eyes, suspecting that the sigh was faked for her benefit—( _does Tikki even need to breathe?_ she finds herself wondering)—but she remains silent, allowing Tikki time to speak.

"You asked me not to lie to you, Marinette," the kwami says. Tikki's tone is soft, gentle, maybe even kind—but it lacks the saccharine sweetness that used drip off of each and every word. "So I will not. The Chevalier's death does not trouble me. He was our enemy. Now the threat has been eliminated. I do not have any more feelings than that."

Marinette looks away. "That's cold, Tikki," she says.

Tikki doesn't even bat an eye. The creature looks wholly unbothered by Marinette's statement.

"I am very old," Tikki says. "The lives and deaths of individual humans mean very little to me."

Marinette leans back in her chair. She's exhausted but she doesn't want to sleep. She can't close her eyes without seeing it all again—Chat Noir's bloody and broken face, the Chevalier's empty dead eyes, the police officers with disbelief and fear writ clear across their expressions.

She must've explained it to them a dozen times— _yes, Chat Noir killed him, no he wasn't akumat_ _ized,_ _the Chevalier attacked him, it was self-defense_ _—_ and each time, it was like she was speaking to them in a foreign language.

The police might have been more surprised by what had happened than she was.

"You know, Tikki," Marinette says, trying to bring her thoughts back to the present, "I used to think that you were nice."

The kwami looks away. For a moment, Marinette thinks that Tikki might be expressing genuine regret.

"I'm sorry," Tikki says, with such conviction that Marinette can't help but believe her. "I _do_ care about you. But I am not human. I am not capable of loving you in the way that humans love each other."

Marinette presses her lips together into a thin line.

"I understand," she says eventually.

The worst part, she thinks, is that she _does._

* * *

Once Adrien has had time to think about it—once the panic and the hysteria and the stark terror of it all finally fades away—he is left feeling... strangely okay.

"I think I'm still in shock," Adrien says.

Plagg, uncharacteristically, has not touched his cheese, and instead is pacing in circles around the table, stepping cautiously between wedges of Appenzeller and crumpled up wrappers from days past. "That's to be expected," he says flatly. "Human brains react poorly to trauma."

The fight keeps replaying in his head, again and again and again. He sees a thousand and one things he could have differently— _should_ have done differently.

He should have taken D'Argencourt as a serious threat from the start. He shouldn't have held back, shouldn't have tried to reason with him, shouldn't have—

"It's not your fault," Plagg says.

"You said that already," Adrien responds numbly.

"I thought it bore repeating."

"I didn't—" Adrien begins. He cuts off abruptly when his voice begins to crack. "I didn't mean to," he says, once he's regained some of his composure. "I wasn't thinking, I was just scared, and I—"

"Hush, kitten," Plagg shushes gently. "I know. I was there, remember?"

"Are you going to leave me?" Adrien asks suddenly.

Plagg tilts his head to one side. "And why in the world would I do that?"

"I—I _killed_ a person," Adrien says, tone beginning to grow panicked. "I used the Miraculous for evil. I'm—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Plagg interrupts dryly. Obediently, Adrien shuts up, and after a moment's pause the kwami continues, explaining, "A kwami is loyal only to itself. Your human notions of _good_ and _evil_ don't mean anything to us. Well—except for Mazza and Angrra, I suppose, but they're special cases."

Adrien blinks a few times. "Who?" he asks.

"Never mind that," Plagg says, shaking his head. "The point is—I'm not going anywhere. _I_ don't decide whether you've crossed a line or not. It's up to the other humans to decide that sort of thing. And, well, up to _you_ to decide how you're going to respond."

If Plagg had hoped that those words would be comforting, he was sorely mistaken. Adrien's eyes are still bright and wide and panicked and, if anything, he looks more worried than he did before. Plagg's ears flicker slightly, and he shoots his human an unamused look.

"Don't give me that face," Plagg complains.

Adrien looks away, but his expression is unchanged. "But if I'm…"

He trails off, unable to finish the sentence, and then swallows nervously. "Why wouldn't you leave?" he finally asks.

"Because you are my wielder," Plagg says simply. "You have been a good wielder so far, and so out of pure selfishness I want you to succeed and survive and be happy, and I absolutely _cannot_ stand it when you make those sad kitten eyes at me."

Adrien makes a choked sound that might be a laugh. "I'm not making sad kitten eyes," he protests weakly.

Plagg curls one lip up in a grimace. "You are a dirty rotten liar," he disagrees, flying in a circle around Adrien's head.

He eventually settles down on Adrien's shoulder, and spends a moment there sitting quietly.

"I _would_ suggest that you try to get some sleep," Plagg eventually says, "but I think we both know that's not going to happen."

It's not.

"Perhaps this would be an excellent time to practice with your climbing wall instead," Plagg suggests gently.

Adrien glances over to the climbing wall that's been a fixture in his bedroom since he was eleven years old. It would probably do him some good to stand up and move around, instead of sitting here in the corner moping, but as his eyes trace over the all-too-familiar colored stones spotted across the wall, he honestly doesn't think he can work up the energy to make it up there.

"You should do _something_ at least," Plagg continues.

Adrien's eyes drift around his bedroom for a moment. The entire room is filled with books and games and puzzles—things that feel too childish for a night like this. Eventually, his eyes land on his fencing gear, still sitting in a haphazard pile next to his dresser.

"Do you think they teach, like, stick-fighting lessons?" Adrien asks aloud.

"Of course," Plagg says cheerfully. "In several different styles. There is the Japanese _bojutsu,_ the Filipino _eskrima_ and, of course, France's own _canne de combat_."

"Do you think there are YouTube video tutorials for that?" Adrien asks thoughtfully.

"I think there probably are," Plagg says, and Adrien can clearly hear the smile in his tone.

* * *

On Monday morning, the atmosphere at the collège is… disquieting.

With just three weeks left to go before summer vacation, students should have been… anxious? Jubilant? Adrien doesn't actually know—he's never been to public school before this year—but he's pretty certain that the students should be happier than this. The biggest worries on anyone's mind should have been end-of-year testing and final grades.

Instead, a dark cloud of dread and uncertainty has descended upon Françoise Dupont, to match the mood of the city. A strange air of quiet has come over the school as students shuffle between their classes, talking in little more than whispers.

Even Chloé has turned her voice down a few levels from her usual screech. "I always knew," she says to Sabrina, tone hushed, "that Chat Noir was bad news. Ladybug is way too good for someone like _him—_ "

Adrien forces himself not to listen to the rest of the conversation.

In the seats ahead of his desk in history class, Alya and Marinette are sitting close, their heads practically bumping against each other, talking in a low murmur.

Alya is grim-faced. She looks tired, and that in and of itself makes Adrien worried—Alya, no matter how much she threw herself into her work, _never_ seems to slow down. But seeing her sitting there with ashen cheeks and bags under her eyes is as disconcerting as anything.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Alya asks Marinette softly. "You look even more stressed out than usual."

"I'm fine," Marinette replies, rubbing at her eyes with her palms. Even Adrien can tell that she's lying. "Just tired."

It's strange, how suddenly the atmosphere of the city could shift. People had been worried before, of course—it was hard _not_ to be worried, when monuments were closed and shops shuttered—but in an instant the nervous tension of the city had turned into full-blown terror.

Now there was a body count. And not at the hands of Papillon or one of his akuma—at the hands of one half of Paris's own superhero duo.

It was, needless to say, not being taken very well.

"Hey, man," Nino says, sounding subdued. "What's up?"

Adrien shakes his head a little, but doesn't answer.

"Yeah," Nino agrees, sighing. "Did you hear about... y'know..."

Nino trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hands.

"He was my fencing instructor," Adrien says, and he can't help but let a little bit of bitterness creep into his tone.

"Oh, right," Nino says, looking ashamed, and Adrien immediately feels guilty. "Dude, that totally sucks..."

Adrien shrugs one shoulder slightly. He doesn't trust himself to answer.

"My parents are, like, totally spooked by the whole thing," Nino continues. "They, uh... they're talking about sending me away."

Adrien sits up a little straighter in his seat. "What?"

"Yeah," Nino says awkwardly. He rubs at the back of his neck. "Actually, they've been talking about it for a while… we've got family out in the UK, y'know? Once the school year ends, they're probably gonna send me out to Belfast."

"...for the summer?" Adrien dares to ask.

Nino grimaces, and Adrien's heart sinks.

"For the year, they're thinking," he says quietly. "Maybe longer. Depends on how this whole supervillain thing goes... my mom's gonna start looking for work in other cities."

Adrien opens his mouth to reply, but he can't manage to find any words. He'd known that things were _bad_ , of course. But it had always been bad in an impersonal way. Tourism was down, people were scared, the economy was suffering—but this is the first time that Adrien's civilian life feels directly affected by Papillon's reign of terror.

"I'm kinda surprised your dad hasn't moved you guys out of town already," Nino continues, a little awkwardly. "Dude is so over-protective that you'd think a supervillain would send him running, right?"

"My father can be stubborn sometimes," Adrien says dully.

"Yeah, I guess so," Nino agrees.

He shakes his head slowly. "Man," he says, "how did everything get so messed up?"

Adrien slumps down a little in his seat, fiddling with his ring.

"I don't know," he says somberly. "I really don't know."

* * *

After school, Marinette shuffles slowly back to the bakery. She tries to convince herself that nothing has changed, but keeps falling short.

Her bedroom on the fourth floor looks the same as it always does: a cluttered mess of fabric and ribbons and lucky charms, the walls and the furniture all colored faintly pink, her bed piled up with well-loved stuffed animals.

 _This looks like a child's room_ , Marinette finds herself thinking.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a text from Alya—who, of all things, is inviting her to the _movies_. Marinette can scarcely imagine doing something so normal, not with everything else that's going on in her life.

Then she takes a deep breath, and types in her response. _Sounds great! s_ he writes. _Meet you in 30?_

Marinette shuffles back out of the bakery and heads to the rendezvous point with Alya. She leaves too early and gets there way before Alya, and so she fiddles nervously with her phone while she waits. She finds herself skimming through old posts on the Ladybug, and a sudden though strikes her.

"Hey, Tikki?" Marinette asks softly.

"Yes Marinette?" the kwami asks, poking its head just slightly out of her purse.

"How old are you, really?"

The kwami retreats pack into Marinette's purse. "Why do you want to know?"

Marinette rolls her eyes. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Tikki has no reply, and so Marinette turns her attention back to her phone. She refreshes the page, and the post at the top hasn't changed since the weekend— _CHAT KILLS CHEVALIER_.

Marinette bites down on her lower lip, then taps on the link.

She skims through the post at first, still too numb the really process it. The words bounce meaningleslsy through her head— _D'Argencourt revealed as Chevalier Noir, Ladybug has made no public comment, Mayor Bourgeois has donated 10,000 euros as a reward for any information leading to Chat Noir's civilian identity—_

Wait.

WAIT.

 _What the ever-loving_ —

* * *

If Plagg were here, Adrien thinks, he would be giving him an earful right now about fate and destiny and bad life choices and the inherent untrustworthiness of turtles. But Plagg is gone—sucked back inside the Miraculous from the very moment Adrien slid the ring off of the tip of his finger—and so there is only silence as Adrien pushes open the door to Master Fu's Enchanted Artifacts & Appraisal.

Fu doesn't look surprised to see him.

He doesn't look happy about it, either.

"Chat Noir," he says, in a voice that's smooth and calm and betrays absolutely no hint of emotion. "What can I do for you today?"

"Take it back," Adrien says.

He holds his hand out towards Fu, plain black ring sitting in his palm. Fu glances at the ring impassively, and says nothing.

"D'Argencourt was wrong," Adrien continues, his words all coming out together in one breathless jumble, "but the things he was saying were right. You chose wrong. Maybe I'm a perfect match for Ladybug or Plagg or Miraculous magic, but I'm not— _we're_ not—ready for this."

Fu is still silent. Adrien pushes his hand a little closer, still holding out the ring to him.

"Please," Adrien begs him.

This finally prompts Fu to speak. He leans back slightly in his seat, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.

"You feel guilty," Fu says. "You made a mistake. You see now that there were many ways you could have ended that fight without taking D'Argencourt's life. There were many more ways you could have avoided that fight entirely."

Adrien grinds his teeth together, and says nothing.

"That was an important lesson," Fu continues. "This guilt will haunt you for a long, long time. Possibly for the rest of your life."

"So take the ring back!" Adrien snaps. Fu's expression grows colder as he levels a critical eye at Adrien.

"You have no intention of returning the Miraculous," he says, his gravelly tone edged faintly with anger. "You came here hoping that I would convince you to keep it."

Adrien takes half a step backwards. "No, that's not it, I—"

"Then give it to me," Fu says. He holds out one palm over the table, looking at Adrien expectantly. "Hand it over right now, if you really intend to."

Adrien lifts up the ring, fully believing that he intends to drop it into Fu's hand and be done with this Miraculous business forever...

But he doesn't.

As much as he wants too, Adrien can't find it in himself to actually let go of the ring. Long moments pass until finally Adrien drops his hand, the ring still clutched tightly in his fingers. Fu's expression hasn't changed.

"You would never willingly part with that ring," Fu says, stern-faced, eyes hard. "It is part of who you are now."

"I wish it wasn't!" Adrien snaps, startling even himself.

"You don't," Fu says firmly. "You were born to wield that Miraculous, and you've known it since the second you put it on."

At that, the quiet anger that had been building in Adrien's chest finally boils over. "I don't know _ANYTHING_ _!"_ he shouts, all his pent-up frustrations pouring out all in one great big burst. "I don't know how to save Paris! I barely even understand my _own Miraculous_."

"You are learning," Fu says calmly.

But Fu's words just made Adrien angrier. "And _you!"_ Adrien spits out, taking a step forward. "You've never helped us. You've never explained anything, you just left us to fend for ourselves—"

"It's not my job to teach you," Fu cuts in sternly.

A thousand retorts are at the tip of Adrien's tongue, and he's on the verge of unleashing another verbal assault when he suddenly realizes: _Fu is right_.

Fu is not a grand guardian or wise old sage. The title of _master_ is purely for show—a cutesy nickname to lure the naive into his shop. He's just an ordinary human, capable of the same kindnesses and cruelties as anyone else.

Adrien takes a few hesitant steps backwards, shaking his head slowly.

"No," he says bitterly. "I suppose it isn't."

He backs slowly towards the door, ring still clutched in his hand, but pauses in the entrance on his way out.

It's entirely petty and not at all productive, but he says, "I'm beginning to see why Plagg doesn't like you."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, with no particular destination in mind, Adrien finds himself at the Pont des Arts, standing in the middle of the mostly quiet bridge. He leans against the railing, eyes closed, and breathes in deep.

The stench of the Seine is strong today, an unmistakable fishy musk that's awful and reassuringly familiar at the same time. Down below, he can faintly hear the rushing of the water, just barely audible over the din of the city. A side effect of being Chat Noir—even when detransformed, his senses are stronger than they used to be.

Adrien holds his Miraculous in the palm of his hand. He considers for a moment throwing it into the Seine, pretending that he was never Chat Noir and forgetting about this superhero nonsense entirely.

Then, with a sigh, he slips it back on his finger.

"With age comes wisdom," Plagg says dryly, though Adrien can't see him. "And, often, a stubborn inability to admit fault."

Adrien doesn't say anything.

"That's Wayzz for you," Plagg continues. "The spirit of longevity... and all the things that go along with it, both the good and the bad. And, just between you and me, they're mostly bad."

This still provokes no response from Adrien, and so Plagg keeps talking, with the same blasé tone but a faint undercurrent of concern.

"Don't mind Fu too much," Plagg says. "He's had his Miraculous since 1839, you know. Things were different when he was young."

"Yeah," Adrien says, eyes still fixed on the Seine.

"Speaking of," Plagg continues cheerfully, "have you ever tried Limburger cheese? The Belgian variety is particularly good. Not as good as Camembert, naturally, or even a decent brie, but it certainly has a unique taste."

When Adrien doesn't answer, Plagg continues, "C'mon. You and me and your father's money should all go down to that fromagerie near the Louvre. Sure, it's a little overpriced, but what do you care, you're—"

Plagg cuts off abruptly midsentence, and Adrien glances up, wondering what caused him to go quiet. Eventually he notices a woman approaching.

She comes to a stop near him and smiles. "Excuse me," she asks, in thickly accented French, "is this the way to the Musée d'Orsay?"

"The other way," Adrien says. The woman reaches into her purse to pull out a map, and he traces out the route along the paper. "Turn around, then go left after the bridge. It's not too far after that."

"Thank you," the woman says.

She folds the map back up and Adrien, struck by a sudden thought, says, "You don't see many tourists in Paris these days."

The woman laughs a little at that. "Funny you should say that," she says. "I came here for work, because of that Papillon fellow. But ironically, I haven't seen any of this akuma business yet!"

Adrien's about to tell her that she's lucky, when the sounds of screaming in the distance suddenly stops him.

"Perhaps I spoke too soon," she says. She glances over her shoulder, and then adds, "I should probably get going."

Adrien waits until she's a safe distance away before talking to Plagg again. "Is it an akuma?" he asks, even though he already suspects the answer.

Plagg hesitates a moment before answering. "No," he eventually confirms. "It's just Ladybug."

Adrien starts scouting out a place to transform. "She's _furious_ ," Plagg adds, unnecessarily. "This Ladybug is really something! I don't think I've seen anything like it since Cleopatra. She's feisty. Most Ladybugs, you know, are hopeless goody-goods, but _this_ girl..."

Plagg keeps talking until the transformation forces him to stop.

Chat Noir lingers in his hiding spot, taking a moment to readjust. He hasn't transformed since... well. Since _last time_.

For the first time since September—when he had first gotten the Miraculous and everything was still so new—he is conscious of just how different Chat Noir is from ordinary, civilian Adrien. The difference is palpable—clawed hands and cat ears and a current of destruction flowing through him like electricity, all the combined forces of entropy and chaos and bad luck just waiting for him to unleash them on some poor, unsuspecting enemy.

He's conscious of Plagg's influence, too. It's subtle, barely-there, but the quiet reminder that his kwami is still technically with him gives him the courage to take that first step forward, then the next, and the next.

When Chat finds Ladybug, she has Mayor Bourgeois hanging upside down from a lamppost outside the Hôtel de Ville, his legs caught up in in the string of her yoyo, as she screams obscenities in his face.

A crowd of terrified onlookers lingers a safe distance away, many of them snapping photographs or recording the exchange on their cell phones. A few police offers are in amongst the crowd, many of them tightly clutching their batons or tasers, but none of them daring to get any closer.

Chat doesn't even want to know what Ladybug did to the police officers that _did_ try to fight her off.

When he lands in the square in front of the Hôtel de Ville, a gasp of surprise ripples through the crowd. Ladybug does not appear to notice.

All eyes are on him as he walks up to her slowly. She doesn't even realize that he's there until he gently sets an arm on her shoulder.

Ladybug whirls around, eyes blazing, fists raised. She swings out at him, but Chat Noir had been expecting this, and he dances away from her easily. Ladybug's fist swipes through empty air, and her expression shifts abruptly when she realizes who he is.

Chat speaks first. "What are you doing?" he asks softly.

The crowds around them dare to edge slightly forward, everyone straining to hear what he says.

Ladybug grits her teeth. "After _everything_ we have done for this city," she says, voice shaking. "After everything _you_ have done for this city, this man thinks he can just—"

She cuts off abruptly, too outraged to even continue.

"Thinks he can just prosecute me for murder?" Chat suggests dryly.

Something flashes in Ladybug's eyes. "He has no right," she says.

Chat glances over at the mayor, still hanging upside down by his feet. He looks terrified, pathetic, on the verge of breaking out into tears.

"Let him go," he says wearily.

Ladybug hisses at that. "Let him _go?"_ she snaps. "No. Absolutely not. He's not going anywhere until he calls this all off and apologizes—"

"We don't need his apologies, Ladybug," Chat interrupts softly. "Just let him—"

"Just let him _what?"_ Ladybug's face contorts into a furious snarl. "Arrest you? Steal your Miraculous?"

" _No_ ," Chat Noir says firmly. "No, of course not. But _this_ is not what our powers are for!"

He sweeps one arm towards Mayor Bourgeois, and more than that, to the terrified crowd around them. "We're supposed to be the heroes here! We don't fight _civilians_ , no matter how wrong they might be!"

"Oh yeah?" Ladybug snaps back. "Then what exactly do you call what happened between you and the Chevalier Noir?"

Chat takes half a step back, looking stricken. Ladybug realizes what she's said just a moment too late.

"Wait, Chat," she says, suddenly calm. "I didn't mean—"

"Just let him go," Chat Noir says.

Ladybug looks reluctantly towards the mayor. But she nods, just once, and releases her grip on her yoyo. The mayor falls to the ground in a heap, still looking terrified, but quickly manages to untangle himself from the cord.

"I'm doing this for you," Ladybug says to Chat Noir quietly. "If this is what you want, then fine. But I still think he deserves to get his ass kicked."

Ladybug stomps away from the scene, and the crowd parts before her like the Red Sea, save for one figure—

Chloé.

Chloé Bourgeois stands in Ladybug's path, unmoving, watching the scene before her with horrified eyes. Ladybug's lip curls into a snarl as she approaches the other girl, and she stalks straight towards her.

"And _you_ ," Ladybug says, leaning in close to her face. "You're just as bad as he is."

She doesn't lay a finger on Chloé, but Chloé shrinks back anyway, like she's been struck. Ladybug flings her yoyo out to a nearby lightpost and hurls herself up into the air, disappearing onto the rooftops.

With Ladybug gone, everyone turns their attention back to Chat Noir.

"Show's over, folks," Chat says curtly.

Nobody tries to stop him from leaving. But he gets dark looks and long stares from the people in the crowd.

Adrien tries to tell himself that it doesn't bother him, but that's a lie.

* * *

Marinette slams the trap door from the roof shut, mid-transformation, and throws herself down onto her bed.

She screams into her pillow. Tikki says nothing.

"I _hate_ him!" she yells. "I hate him and his _stupid_ daughter and—"

She cuts off in an incoherent screech and hurls one of her pillows off of the bed. Tikki watches dispassionately as Marinette storms down from her bed, pacing around her room, hands flailing as she rants and raves.

"They're just— _so_ awful!" she exclaims. "Both of them!

She stops abruptly at the sound of a light knock on her bedroom door.

"Marinette?" her mother calls up softly.

Marinette takes a deep breath to steady herselfand rubs her palms on her eyes. "Yes, _Maman?_ " she calls down sweetly.

The door to her room cracks open slightly, and Mme Cheng pokes her head into Marinette's room.

"I thought you were out with Alya," she says, sounding concerned.

"I—I was," Marinette lies awkwardly. "Alya, um, canceled. She had something really important to take care of for her blog."

"Oh, I see," Mme Cheng says kindly. The concern hasn't left her expression, though. "I guess I just didn't hear you come in."

She turns to leave, but hesitates a moment. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right, Marinette?" she says.

"Of course, _Maman_ ," Marinette says awkwardly.

"Anything," Mme Cheng repeats. "I'm always here. You can always tell me if there's something going on—"

"I know, _Maman."_

"—or if you're having school trouble, or boy trouble, or any other kind of trouble...?"

Mme Cheng trails off and looks at Marinette almost hopefully. Marinette smiles tightly and swallows down her pride. "Everything's fine," she lies.

Mme Cheng smiles back. "Okay, sweetie," she says.

If Mme Cheng suspects that her daughter is lying, she says nothing.

* * *

Ladybug doesn't show up for patrol for the rest of the week, or the next one. Chat still hits the streets each night, tracing over routes alone that they used to do together, secretly wondering whether his presence inspires more fear than comfort these days.

Papillon, either busy with dealings in his civilian life or still waiting to judge the fallout from D'Argencourt's death and Ladybug's subsequent tantrum, doesn't akumatize anyone. Chat Noir supposes that he'll appreciate it while he can.

When Ladybug finally makes her reappearance, it's quiet. She doesn't join Chat Noir on one of their regular patrols, or even make any attempt to talk to him at all. She just shows up at the Notre Dame one hot summer's day, sitting with her legs dangling over the edge, eyes closed and face turned up towards the sun, waiting calmly for… something.

Chat Noir lands on the roof behind her. He takes a few steps closer, making sure that she can hear his approach, but doesn't say anything at first.

"I don't like fighting with you," Ladybug eventually says without turning around.

"Neither do I," Chat says.

"I can't—" Ladybug starts, but she stops for a moment, overcome by emotion. "I can't do this alone. I need you."

Chat's heart lurches, guilt gnawing quietly at his heart. "I'm sorry," he apologizes quickly.

"I'm sorry too," Ladybug says, but Chat Noir shakes his head.

"No," he says. "This is my fault. I'm the one who..."

He trails off. It's been weeks now, but it's still too hard to say out loud. "I messed up," he eventually finishes lamely. "This is all on me."

Ladybug, for the first time, glances back over her shoulder. "It was self-defense," she says. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Chat takes a few more careful steps forward, then kneels down on the ground beside her. "Then I'm sorry for everything else," he says.

Ladybug sighs softly. She leans back slightly, so that her head is resting just barely against Chat Noir's shoulder and mumbles, "So what do we do now?"

"I don't know," Chat says. "The same things we did before, I guess."

"What about Bourgeois?"

Chat shrugs his free shoulder half-heartedly. "What about him?"

"He's offering a reward for anyone who can uncover your identity," Ladybug says. "The police want to _arrest_ you."

"They won't do anything," Chat says dryly, wholly unconcerned about the prospect. "None of them really wants to get into a fight with me."

He lifts up one hand to illustrate the point. He hasn't actually summoned the power of Cataclysm, but the message is clear enough—only a handful of very brave or very stupid people were willing risk becoming the next D'Argencourt.

"They could still come for us," Ladybug points out. Her voice starts to waver, uncertainty creeping into her tone. "They could still try to hurt you."

"They won't," Chat says again. "This is just political posturing. At the end of the day, they still need us."

Ladybug still looks unconvinced, so he adds, "C'mon, LB. If Bourgeois got rid of us, then _he'd_ have to deal with Papillon and the akuma. Do you really think he's going to do anything that might actually make him do real work?"

Despite herself, Ladybug snorts. "That's true."

"You see?" Chat says. "There's nothing to worry about."

"From Bourgeois, sure," Ladybug says. "But what about the president? Or, god, I don't know—the WMO?"

Chat gives her a skeptical look. "They haven't intervened yet," he points out dryly. "I don't think they care."

Ladybug makes a strange face, wrinkling her nose up slightly. "They _should_ care..." she says, just a little petulantly.

She scooches back away from the edge, nestling in closer to Chat's chest, and suddenly it's like the last two weeks have been erased entirely from existence. Ladybug fits comfortably against him, like she belongs there, and for the first time Chat actually believes that things might be okay after all.

"People are awful," Ladybug mutters, uncharacteristically misanthropic.

"You don't really mean that," Chat says.

Ladybug's quiet for a moment. But eventually she says, "I don't."

* * *

When Chat Noir finally crawls back home, it's far too late and he's more exhausted than he'd like to admit. He climbs through the window to his bedroom and lets the transformation slide off of him before he's even all the way inside.

Plagg is quiet as Adrien staggers over to his bed. He doesn't even ask for cheese. Instead he hovers just a few centimeters behind Adrien, following him across the bedroom. As Adrien flops face-first into his unmade bed, Plagg settles in on a pillow near his head, curling up around himself.

After a few minutes pass in silence, Plagg eventually says quietly, "Things will get easier eventually, Adrien."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Adrien admits glumly.

 _This was an important lesson_ , Fu had said. And every time Adrien's guilt begins to abate, he was worries that he might forget it.

"Humans," Plagg mutters, shaking his head slightly. A split-second before the door to Adrien's room opens, Plagg vanishes.

"Adrien?" Nathalie calls out gently.

Adrien sits up abruptly, rubbing at his eyes. "Yes, I'm sorry, I'll be ready in a minute—"

He stops abruptly when he sees the way Nathalie is looking at him.

A stranger might have said that her expression was neutral. Empty of emotions. But Adrien has known Nathalie for years now, and it's with those years of experience that he can read her face now. The strain of keeping her mouth in a line shows, just barely, in a twitch along her jawbone. She doesn't look him directly in eye, like she normally does, but fixes her faze at a point somewhere near his chin.

"You missed your Chinese lesson," she says flatly.

"I'm sorry," Adrien says quickly, "I—"

"You also missed your Chinese lesson last week," Nathalie continues, "and karate practice, and two fencing lessons with your new instructor whom, I would like to add, is not pleased."

There's an uncomfortable gnawing feeling in Adrien's gut. Had he really missed all of that? He hadn't meant to skip out on so many of his lessons—the time had somehow slipped away from him.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes again, because there's nothing else he can say.

"If I were to report a single one of these to your father," Nathalie continues, "he would insist that I pull you out of public school."

Adrien's heart stutters in his chest. "If…?" Adrien asks, daring to hope.

"If," Nathalie repeats firmly. For a moment her mask of calm seems to waver, her cold marble face temporarily morphing into something that looks downright human. "Adrien... I can't help but notice that you've been acting strangely for a while now."

Adrien says nothing. He doesn't even know what he could say to Nathalie without giving it all away.

If Nathalie is surprised by his lack of reply, she certainly doesn't show it. "I've been thinking," she says, "that in light of recent events... perhaps it would be best if we reduced some of your extra-curricular activities."

Adrien sits up a little straighter, hardly able to believe what he's hearing. But Nathalie continues, "I understand that summer vacation is beginning for you next week. Perhaps this would be a good time to take a break from some of your other activities as well."

Adrien hesitates. "My father...?"

"Doesn't need to know about it."

Well, it's not like Gabriel knows much of anything else about his son's life, anyway.

For a moment, Adrien doesn't know what to say. His throat feels dry. Eventually, he manages a soft, "Thank you."

Nathalie nods once, but doesn't leave the room.

"There's one other thing" she begins tentatively. Adrien looks up, surprised to hear her sound so... uncertain. "Armand D'Argnecourt left some of his belongings to you in his will."

Adrien stares blankly, unsure if he heard her correctly. "To me?"

Nathalie nods, just once, and Adrien doesn't know how to take the news. After a pause, Nathalie continues, saying, "He bequeathed his antique sword collection to his students. I've been working with his attorney to handle the paperwork, but I thought you would want to know."

Something twists painfully in Adrien's chest. "Why?" he asks, before he can think better of it.

"I'm sorry," Nathalie says. She still won't look him in the eye. "There wasn't any explanation. He didn't leave any note."

Sometimes that's just how it is, kid.


End file.
